Wild
by Praxid
Summary: Carol couldn't let go. Not after everything. She'd search for him until she brought him home, or died trying.
1. Tribulation

_I'm ready with the first chapter of my summer fic project today, folks. I'm really excited to try something new. And here it is—a post-season three story about Daryl and Carol's friendship. For my other ramblings, drawings, and other goodies, please visit my tumblr—under the name "Praxid."_

_I really look forward to jumping into this fic—it's really different from what I've done before, and I'm thrilled to be able to share. Thank you!_

* * *

_Tribulation:_

Carol woke early that morning, so there was barely a hint of light swelling at the windows beyond her cell. She looked up at the wire frame of the empty bunk above her head. Its blue-striped mattress. Beyond that, the shadows of the bars cast patterns on the walls.

She'd made it to another day. So had everyone else. She lay there a moment, reflecting on that.

And as she climbed out of bed, a cough echoed out against the concrete from somewhere down the cellblock. The prison was never quiet—and with all the Woodbury newcomers, there was _always_ some sound in the background. Something that reminded you that you were never alone, here. Not really.

And Carol could hear her bunk creaking under her weight as she got up. And she didn't want to wake the others so early, if she could manage it. So when she grabbed her boots off the floor, she carried them in one hand. Padded out on the concrete in her socks. The cold worked into her feet.

The first thing Carol did each morning was check on the baby. So she headed that way. Heard the aglets on her shoelaces clattering together, quietly, where they dangled in the air.

And as she got close, she saw that Beth was curled up on the floor, against the side the crib. Fast asleep, with the cool, grey light falling over her shoulders.

Carol knelt down next to her, and put her boots on the ground. Laid a hand on Beth's shoulder. Stroked it, lightly.

"_Beth_… wake up."

Beth opened her eyes, then. Looked up at her with a bleary smile.

"Mornin'."

And both of them heard a noise from above. Someone moving, up on the second level, where Daryl slept. And Carol knew that he was up, too. Moments later, she recognized the sound of his footfalls on the stairs.

Beth pulled herself upright. Made to head for the crib. Carol touched her arm, again.

"No, Beth—you go get some rest. I'll see to things this morning."

* * *

Some fifteen minutes later, Carol had gotten the coffee ready. She'd been working away in their makeshift kitchen. And Daryl sat on the stairs at her back, watching.

She poured a cup for him—black—the way he liked it. Turned to hand it over.

"Here."

He took it without a word. Gave one of those little nods of his. The kind that stood in for a thank you.

She went back to their kitchen stores—the shelves of food they'd gathered to hold them for the winter. Yet again, scanning the metal racks, she realized how little there was. She knew it wouldn't last with so many people in the cell block.

Everyone knew it.

And Carol rooted around, trying to decide what to use for breakfast.

And behind her, she heard Daryl pick up his crossbow. Probably checking over its works. He'd had it propped against the stairs, beside him, since he came down to sit with her. He wouldn't have brought it along unless he was going hunting.

She asked him about it, without turning around:

"Going out, again?"

He still didn't say anything. And Carol knew that meant he was.

She turned around. Looked at him.

"That's three times this week."

He shrugged. Took a swig of his coffee. He didn't want to say much about hunting trips—about what a risk he'd been running. How dangerous it was getting out there. She could tell.

There were swarms of dead all over, these days. Worse than ever. The herds were moving—gathering together. There were just too many—and they were too close to the prison for comfort.

She went back to the storage shelves. Decided to make up the bit of oatmeal they had left. She could fix him that fast—so he'd have some food in him for his trip.

She'd barely made it across the room when she heard him clear his throat. And he spoke up for the first time that morning:

"No."

She turned to look at him, hand still stretched out for the box.

"Daryl—"

"Later."

She raised an eyebrow at him, then. But he held firm.

"See what I get when I'm out there, first."

And she knew what he meant. Once he'd gone hunting, they'd know if they could spare it.

Daryl put down his mug. Started pacing the floor. And she saw that he'd left his jacket hanging on the railing, next to his crossbow, and that coffee mug.

So Carol took the moment to grab one of the granola bars from a box on the shelf. Made sure he wasn't looking, and slipped it into one of the pockets.

And moments after she did it, Daryl turned on his heels and came back again. Took the coat, and the bow. Headed out towards the barred doors with their tired, grey paint. Stopped a moment, and looked her over. Met her eyes. Paused, there.

And he held the gaze a bit too long for his own comfort. She could see it in his face. So he broke it, and looked down at the floor.

Carol stepped forward. Spoke, quietly.

"You look out for yourself."

And he looked up, then. Smiled a small, gentle smile. That little tug of the lips she knew so well.

"Always do."

He stepped out through the cell block gate. Shut it, carefully, behind him.

And he was gone.

* * *

Daryl took one of their trucks out into the farmland, on a rural route overrun with dead weeds. Left it there, at the side of the road, so he could go out into the wilderness on foot.

And he went out far, through the fields. Found himself knee deep in the dead grass, and wilted queen anne's lace.

They needed things. _Everything_ was running low—and he'd helped the others forage for medical supplies and warm clothes and bedding for the old folks. They'd all been throwing in a hand with that sort of thing. But the _food_—that was different. Nobody else knew how to get fresh meat. Just Daryl.

It was dangerous out here. He knew it. He'd had to give up his regular hunting grounds—nearer to the prison. They were swarmed with walkers. So lately, he'd had to start pushing out deeper and deeper into the wild.

That was something else he could do that the others couldn't. Moving through the wild places. It was something they needed—and needed _him_ for.

And really, aside from all that—he _liked_ being out here. It was dangerous, yes, but it was the only chance he had to be alone. _Really_ alone. To take in the quiet. To think.

And Daryl needed that. It was something he looked forward to.

And who knew what he'd find, out here. A few squirrels could make for a good dinner. With luck, he'd bag something bigger. A turkey. A deer.

Before he knew it, he was standing at the forest edge. The wind picked up on the leaves, and it felt cool and damp on his face.

It smelled like it might rain.

He stepped into the press of the trees. Dark and close—so the light looked dim and hollow through the tangled branches. Pushed through the mess of briars there, and off into the wilderness.

* * *

Carol spent the day like she always did. The morning was all taken up with kitchen work. Taking stock of their supplies, and trying to dole them out as best and as fairly as possible.

People trickled in, and she fed them. Listened to them talk together. Watched them gather into little groups. The various new people from Woodbury. Tyreese, Sasha, and Karen—sharing one end of a table. Maggie, Glenn, and Hershel, at the other side. Carl, sitting near Michonne on the stairs, holding his baby sister.

Rick, off in a corner, alone.

And just like Daryl, Rick didn't want anything when she tried to feed him. So Carol saved him some of what she'd put aside for herself, and made him eat it after everyone else was finished.

* * *

The stag was large.

Daryl paused. Watched it standing there in a clearing, peeling the bark off one of the younger sapling trees.

It was knee deep in the tall brush, upwind. Didn't know he was there.

And it was _massive_. Beautiful. If he could just get the thing back to the prison, it'd be enough to feed everybody for a good while.

Daryl felt a little tremor of excitement, at the thought. Imagined bringing it back, for everyone to see.

But that was getting ahead of himself. So he tried to focus. Started to follow it carefully—methodically. The way he'd been taught. After a while, it started to sense something was there—watching. It was skittish. He worked hard not to startle it—to set it bolting away.

Instead, he waited. Patiently. Stopped thinking about anything else. Forgot all the thousand worries about the group. Forgot about the prison and The Governor and everything that had happened. There was nothing but the sound of the wind in the dead branches, and the deer's huffing breath.

It felt just like any hunting trip when he was younger. Like Merle should be with him, circling around from the other side of the trees. Using their calls to guide him. That language they had, for hunting, that only the two of them knew.

And he thought of taking his shot a few times, as he moved. But he didn't. He'd got the stag heading back towards the farmland—towards his truck. And it'd be easier to bring back the closer it came to the forest edge.

So Daryl was patient.

* * *

"Alright, Mr. Fischer. You know the drill."

Carol knelt on the floor next to the old man, where he was sitting on a bunk. She was going to check his blood glucose level. They'd been doing their best to manage his diabetes—struggling to keep it under control with what little they had to do it.

So she reached out. Took the man's hand, and leaned in with the lancet.

"… just a little pinprick."

And Mr. Fischer looked out, away from her. Didn't flinch when she worked out the little drop of blood. Just stared out past the barred door, and towards the windows. His eyes were clouded over with cataracts, and Carol wasn't sure how well he could see what was out there.

She found herself pausing a moment. Watching Mr. Fischer's face. They wouldn't be able to keep him stable forever. Days. Maybe weeks.

And he was frail. His hands shook where she'd placed them down on his knees.

He had no future.

But Carol breathed in—hard—and leaned down over the meter, and the test strip:

"How've you been since last time?" she asked, "Feeling ok?"

He nodded, quietly. She wrote down the readings on the meter, to show Hershel later.

And Carol carefully pulled off Mr. Fischer's slippers—the ones she'd found for him a few weeks ago. Just sitting there in the cell Oscar used to use.

She carefully rolled off the compression stockings he had on under them. And Carol ran her hands along his legs, then. His bony feet—searching the skin for sores.

And he kept looking off into the distance. Spoke up, after a while:

"Looks like rain."

And Carol cupped the old man's feet in her hands, close—trying to warm them as best she could.

"Yeah," she said, "It does."

* * *

Daryl took his shot when he reached the shadow of a low valley. A perfect hit. And he watched the wounded stag struggle, pushing through the grass, before it dropped down on the ground.

The forest rose up on one side—on a sharp hill cut through by erosion. Fallen trees from the summer storms clung to the far side—torn from the edge of the hill and toppled down. Overgrown with brush, and winter weeds.

The woods opened up to the farm land, there—only a couple miles from the truck he'd left parked out on the road.

And he paused. Stopped to reload the crossbow. Didn't want to go out into the open air unarmed.

So when Daryl heard the stranger's footfalls, he was looking down. Didn't realize what they _were_, immediately. Thought it was just an animal, rooting around in the brush.

But it was a man.

He looked up from the bow to see him standing there. Wearing dirty flannels, tugging a bit at the stag's massive rack. Seemed like he was looking it over for bites—trying to figure out what took it down.

That guy didn't notice the arrow wound, immediately. The shaft had broken when the stag fell. And so the stranger knelt down beside it. Reached for his hunting knife, to clean and dress the thing.

Without a moment's thought, Daryl immediately pushed forward.

"_Hey!_"

The man's face spun towards him. He had long hair and a messy, scraggly beard.

"_Hey!" _Daryl called, gesturing with one hand:

"Get _away_ from that!"

The man jumped up on his feet. Jerked his rifle towards Daryl. Aimed for him with shaking hands.

Daryl drew the crossbow at the same instant. Trained it on his face.

"_Back off_, buddy," he said, "It's a big goddamned _woods_. Go find your own kill."

The man shook his head.

"No…" he whispered. Real soft. Like he wasn't talking to Daryl. Like he was talking to himself.

He stared at Daryl, pale and quiet:

"No, no, no, no…"

Daryl stepped forward. Steady on his feet. Clenched his jaw.

"I ain't gonna tell you ag—"

The man let out a sob. Moved closer. Daryl tensed to fire. They were face to face, and the dead stag lay forgotten at their backs.

"_No... _it's the _tribulation_…"

Daryl furrowed his brow.

"The hell you—"

The stranger fired.

Daryl let off a shot in the same moment—threw himself to the side, and dropped on the ground. And he knew he'd been hit. Felt his leg give way beneath him. He'd been shot in the thigh.

He let out a rough, agonized shout, and it echoed off the hills all around him.

* * *

That afternoon, Carol spent some time with baby Judith. Talked to her. Tried to make her smile. She thought it was important to set aside some time like that for the baby, each day.

The cellblock was pretty quiet. Maggie and Glenn had gone out on a supply run. Hershel was off with Beth, doing something in the yard. And Michonne was somewhere in the prison halls, making sure the gates were still secure.

Others drifted in and out, as they went about their business.

As things quieted down, Carol pulled out one of the storybooks they'd scavenged, and read to the baby:

"_Next to a great forest there lived a poor woodcutter with his wife and his two children. The boy's name was Hansel and the girl's name was Gretel. He had but little to eat, and once, when a great famine came to the land, he could no longer provide even their daily bread."_

She moved through the story. Told Judith about the wicked stepmother's plans for the children:

"_Early tomorrow morning we will take the two children out into the thickest part of the woods, make a fire for them, and give each of them a little piece of bread, then leave them by themselves and go off to our work. They will not find their way back home, and we will be rid of them."_

Judith pawed at the page. Got the binding in her mouth a moment, before Carol could pull it away.

And she continued:

"_No, woman," said the man. "I will not do that. How could I bring myself to abandon my own children alone in the woods? Wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces._"

Judith didn't sit still, through it all. Was really getting so she wanted to pull on _everything_. Had a hand on Carol's ear. Then on the hem of her shirt—tugging at the lace, there. Got a finger in Carol's nose—and when Carol laughed, Judith did, too.

"Oh _yes_," Carol said, pausing in the story, and letting Judith paw at her face:

"You _like_ noses, don't you?"

The little girl got a hand in the side of Carol's hair, then. Babbled at her. Carol babbled back.

Soon—sooner than it seemed—Judith would start talking.

Carol turned a page. Moved on.

_"Don't worry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will not forsake us."_

And as she read, it occurred to Carol that she'd never heard Daryl's truck pull up—didn't see him with the others as they drifted back and forth through the cellbock.

Usually, he'd be back by now.

But she'd been busy, looking after everyone. And he had plenty to keep busy with himself, most days.

So she pushed it to the back of her mind.

* * *

Daryl had landed on top of his crossbow. Felt it digging into his side. And before he could move, the man was on top of him. Had his knee on Daryl's chest, and his hands clutching at his throat. Yelled in Daryl's face:

"You _can't be here_."

A string of spit dripped down from his mouth. Onto Daryl's cheek. And he started shouting in earnest, then:

"_Matthew! Matthew!_"

Daryl grabbed at him hard—trugged at his arms. Grappled with him. Struggled for purchase on the loose earth.

"_Matthew!_"

Daryl strained to look out past him—to see if this Matthew was about to come out of the woods. If he did, he'd make quick work of Daryl, now that he was down.

The stranger panted. Started ranting at him:

"Matthew... Mark, Luke, and John… Paul came later. Like the Holy Ghost."

Daryl pushed hard to the side. Let out a grunt. Saw an opening and cuffed the stranger's jaw. The man lost his grip, and Daryl was on him in an instant. Grabbed his shoulders and forced him down in the dirt.

"The Holy Ghost, he gonna come around _late_."

Daryl saw the man had managed to draw his hunting knife. Grabbed him by the wrist as he moved to strike.

There were tears running down the man's face. His voice cracked as he spat out the words:

"…he always come around _late_."

And Daryl started to really feel the pain in his leg, then—from his wound. Felt the warm blood on his skin.

This crazy motherfucker was going to kill him.

"… it's _too late_," the man murmured. And Daryl shouted in his face. Wrenched his wrist to the side. Got a hold of the knife handle, and wrenched it free.

Without thinking, Daryl twisted it around, and rammed it into the man's chest. Left it there, buried to the hilt. Rolled over, and saw the rifle, there. Aimed for the head, and shot the man with his own weapon.

The sound reverberated in the quiet air, and went silent.

Daryl heard his ragged breath, echoing close in his head. The pain bloomed through his body. The blood was spreading. Soaking his pants leg. Spreading out and out, and onto the grass. Looking down at it, he started to feel dizzy.

And in that moment, he heard a noise. A throttled groan. Looked up, and saw a handful of walkers, filtering in from the trees and moving towards him.

There might be even more behind.

"_Shit_."

He grabbed his crossbow. Struggled to stand, and make some kind of escape.

* * *

Carol kept watch late that afternoon. Leaned out from her perch, over everything—way up in the surviving guard tower, looking out over the trees.

She spent a few hours up there, as the sun started to wane. Trained the scope of her rifle on the leaves. On the heads of the walkers moving around, out below her. Practiced taking her aim, even if she never fired.

And she heard Beth out below, singing to herself as she carried something in from one of the cars—just back from a supply run:

_For the beauty of the earth—for the glory of the skies—  
__For the love which from our birth, over and above us lies  
__Lord of all—to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise._

The sound of her voice was faint. Cut in and out, depending on the way the wind was blowing. But Carol could follow the melody. She knew that song by heart.

* * *

Daryl couldn't run.

His leg gave out underneath him the moment he put his weight on it. He crumpled—stifled a cry of pain. Swore to himself, under his breath. Twisted around to look at the walkers.

Seven or so, drifting from the trees. They were on the other side of the valley. Moving into the open air.

He couldn't let them see him.

So pushed himself up. Panted hard against the pain. Leaned on the crossbow, and made his way forward.

It was agonizingly slow—he threw himself forward on his good leg. Leaned hard on his bow, and dragged the bad one behind him. And he fought the urge to look back, again. Heard the sounds of the things moving around in the winter grass.

They were getting closer. From the sound—more were coming. A good few dozen, probably splintered off from one of the larger herds. Drawn by the sounds of the fight. The gunfire.

He felt nauseous. Light headed. He was losing too much blood. The fear clenched at his gut, and twisted.

There was no fucking _way_ he'd be able to outrun them. And he knew his truck was less than two miles away. But it may as well have been on the moon.

He heard his breath in the air—short and fast and shallow.

"_No_," he whispered, "Fucking _pull it together_."

He tried to get a goddamned hold of himself, then. Scanned the valley. There were at least thirty. They hadn't noticed him yet, but they would.

Daryl cursed. Threw himself behind one of the fallen trees—burrowed into the close space between the trunk and the steep incline of the hill.

And he looked up, from there, into a grey sky.

He lay there, barely hidden from view. It was shit for a hiding place—but it was the only one he had. And slowly, the walkers filled the space around him. Hours passed. The sun started to set. As silently as he could, he tried to bind his wound with the fabric of his flannel shirt. The bleeding slowed. And he knew the bullet hadn't hit any major cables—or he'd already be dead.

And Daryl sat there, helpless and alone. As it got dark, the dead drifted back and forth around him—grey and shapeless in the winter fog.

* * *

Carol walked the perimeter as the sun set. Spread out the walkers that perpetually strained against the fence. In the low light, they were only shapes. Indistinct. Formless. The fog rose up as the air cooled, and she wandered through it like a ghost.

As she finished the circle, and got back to where she started, the light began to go dead.

And it was then she noticed it—Daryl's truck. The one he'd taken out that morning—it wasn't in its place, parked by the stairs into C-Block.

So she went inside. Saw Rick with some of the others, crowded together in a small cluster, leaning in close, and talking quietly. They all looked up as she walked towards them. Stopped whatever they were discussing, and stared at her.

"Where's Daryl?" she asked.


	2. The Stag

_Chapter two is finally ready—I feel badly it took so long to get out. The last few months have really taken it out of me—I'm still getting back into the swing of things. I *will* get to responding to your reviews—I appreciate them more than I can say, and I don't want to ignore what you have to say about my writing, because I find it incredibly useful._

_And I hope you like this. I do want to warn you that it's a bit gory-not really violent, but kind of gross at times. _

_This story should have six chapters when it's done. So we've got a ways to go, yet. Enjoy!_

* * *

_The Stag_

Dawn came after a long, long night.

Sometime during those dark hours, the blood stopped flowing from Daryl's wound. But he didn't sleep. Not really. Just drifted in and out of a pain-laced haze. Huddled into his jacket against the damp air. The remains of his shirt clung against his skin—soaked full through with sweat and dirt and blood.

All night long, he'd had no choice but to lie there—he couldn't _move_. Not an inch. Not with the walkers so close.

And when the sun rose, and the grey light spilled out over his valley, the dead were _still_ all over the place—surrounding him. The nearest were just a few feet away, now—right on the other side of the fallen tree. And Daryl burrowed close against it—as low as he could in the narrow pocket between the trunk and the rise of the hillside behind it.

He tried to keep it together. Counted his breaths. Stretched his muscles in place, by turns. Felt the early morning air moving lightly over his skin—cool and wet. He closed his eyes against it. Breathed it in.

It was lovely.

But that fresh air meant he was exposed. If any of the dead turned in his direction—caught him moving—heard him breathing… they'd see him.

So he tried to lie still—low to the ground. Watched the rows of arms swinging, loosely, in the air beyond the branches of his fallen tree.

Those branches had a few dead leaves clinging to them, even now. Every so often, the wind pulled one away, and it flew off into the air, and disappeared.

* * *

Carol shoved the closest walker back on its heels. It staggered, and Maggie grabbed the thing by the torso. Threw it into the side of a tree, and pinned it there with a grunt.

And then it was Carol's turn. She lunged in, machete ready. Swung hard, and buried it deep in its skull.

She wrenched the blade out again. Stepped back. Maggie let go, and the body slumped to the forest floor.

The two of them had gone out with a few of the others. Had been searching for Daryl all morning—since just before the sun rose. And now it was past noon.

It was slow going. There were clusters of walkers scattered _all over_ the woods. Smaller groups—splintered off from the larger herds. So moving through the woods had been utterly exhausting. Around every tree—down every slope—something was waiting, that wanted to kill them.

Carol turned from the body on the ground. Scanned the trees for the rest of the group. Rick and Glenn were there, standing over a pair of bloody corpses. And there was Michonne, shaking the rancid blood from her sword, off on the other side of the clearing.

Everyone was ok. And she sensed Maggie, coming up to stand beside her.

"That's the last of them," she said, brushing her hands off on her jeans.

Glenn looked at her. He was breathing hard, and had a bit of blood on his face.

"For _now_…"

* * *

Daryl spent most of the first day watching the walkers devour the stag.

They struggled over the thing—each trying to push in on the body, and tear off as much as it could. And up close and personal like he was, Daryl got a real good look at some of them.

The nearest one was a small, young woman. Just a little slip of a thing. About two yards away—looming up above him, through the tree branches. She had a tattered sundress hanging on her shoulders. One of those gauzy, cotton things girls liked to wear in the summer.

And as he watched, she wormed her way in through the crowd of the others. Wriggled close, and got the stag by the antlers. Tugged on the rack with her little hands—pulling at the soft velvet. Peeled away a few strips of the stuff, and slowly—methodically—ate them.

Daryl watched her for hours, through the mass of bodies past the tree. Her hands, grabbing at those antlers. The little gold wedding ring, catching the light.

And there was another right next to her. Doing the same thing. A balding, older guy with a sagging potbelly. To Daryl, he seemed a lot like one of the science teachers at the elementary school, back home.

Every morning—before school hours—that teacher would always be out, reading his newspaper on a park bench, near the center of town. He'd have a gas station coffee in one hand as he read—lost in his own little world.

If it was cold out, that man would wear a sweater. If it was raining, he'd have an umbrella. But he was always there.

Daryl didn't know that teacher—never spoke to him, even to say hello. But even now, at the end of the world, he thought about him, from time to time.

He shook it off. Who knows what happened to that guy when the shit went down—but he wasn't _here_. The walker didn't even _look_ that much like him. Not really.

And that was the thing about walkers. If you looked at them too long, you started thinking about their faces. Started seeing things. Started trying to figure out their stories. And that was a mistake. They were just dead. Didn't have pasts.

So he tried to ignore them. But it was hard to do. Because they were fucking _everywhere_. Crowded around the deer. Crowded around the body of that crazy asshole who'd shot him—off somewhere else in the grass. Ripping off the meat from his bones, and wrenching the guts out from his abdomen.

Daryl could hear them chewing on that stuff, at his back, even if he couldn't see.

And _that_… it reminded him of Merle.

Merle, crouched down. Chewing on that kid's body in the dirt.

A hungry, wet, sloppy sound.

That sound was the background to Daryl's whole _life_, now. And he tried to ignore it… but he couldn't.

So he ended up watching the walkers, after all. The girl in the sundress, and the guy who looked kind of like that science teacher. They were pulling at the stag's rack, still. Ripping off scraps of the velvet bit by bit.

And it struck him funny, then. Around this same time, the day before, he'd been watching that very stag pulling at the saplings trees. Eating strips of the bark away.

* * *

Carol felt the sweat clinging to her skin—despite the cool air all around them. And she could tell from the sky that it was getting close to sundown.

They needed to find him soon, or they'd end up wandering around in the dark.

And none of them knew how to _track_, so they only had the vaguest sense of where he'd been headed—where he'd said he might try to hunt, with the danger all around.

At last, the trees started to thin, and they were almost out of the woods. Found themselves at the crest of a hillside that dropped down into a shallow valley.

They'd been planning to head down there. To check out the farmland, and the rural route beyond it. But there was no way to they could do it. The whole place was overrun.

And so they all gathered together, sheltered by the trees—quietly discussing their next move.

"Can't make it to the road from here," Rick said, gesturing with one hand, "We'll have to head south along the treeline and loop back towards the other side of the river."

Michonne looked Rick over.

"So we turn back?" she asked.

"Maybe we should," Maggie said, stepping towards the two of them, "We could retrace our steps."

Then she shrugged.

"Might've missed something."

The conversation rolled on and on—faded to a murmur in Carol's ears. Rick's voice. Michonne and Maggie's. Glenn's. All blurred together.

Because Carol could tell all the discussion was pointless. _Nobody_ knew what to do—where to look. So they were just talking around it all in circles.

And so she didn't really say much, while the others talked. Found herself stepping back a bit from the rest of them. Felt herself drawn out—out past the trees to the edge of the hillside.

Carol stepped through the brush, and looked down into the valley below.

* * *

The sun was getting low in the sky. Hovered there, just over the western edge of the hills.

Daryl watched it spill out over the valley, filtered by the clouds in a glowing haze. And it was hard to look into the light. It stabbed at his eyes. Over the last few hours, his head had started aching with a low, dull throb. Like someone was pushing against his skull. Trying to crush him.

He was about to turn away when he noticed something.

Out there. Across the valley. Up at the crest of the landrise—there was some movement in the trees.

He brushed it off, at first. More walkers, probably. There were always more of them. But a moment later, he _heard_ something.

Voices_._

Just a faint murmur of conversation—so quiet he could barely hear it at all.

And in that moment, he knew it was Rick, up there. Knew it with an absolute, iron certainty. It _had_ to be. And he'd brought a few of the others—to look for him.

Of course they'd come.

But they couldn't fucking _see_ him. Not from this distance. And he couldn't let them know he was there. Couldn't yell to them. Couldn't stand. Couldn't _move_. The dead things all around would tear him to pieces before the others could do a thing to stop it.

His stomach tightened in his gut. His fists clenched at his sides—and he wanted to punch the side of the tree. But he had to lie still. Didn't move.

He couldn't do anything. _Anything_.

And it was then that Daryl fully realized he was alone out there. _Really_ alone.

Helpless.

* * *

From the top of the hillside, Carol stared down into the mass of moving bodies, below. Something about them caught her interest—like the walkers sometimes did. Their aimless movements—their shapes. So much like people. But at the same time, so different.

There were dozens and dozens of them—she didn't try to count how many. So many it was hard to really see much of what was going on down there. A lot of them were crowded around something—near one of the fallen trees. For a moment, they shifted, and she saw it.

A stag, down below. Killed.

It must have been _huge_, before the walkers got to it. And Carol figured they must have followed it down into that valley, then overpowered it with sheer force of numbers. Taken it for their own.

And that was a shame—something that strong, and swift, and wild. Something like that, laid low.

The creature must have been beautiful.

* * *

Daryl's heart was pounding in his chest—he could feel it. Just because he'd heard some voices in some goddamned _trees_. For just a moment, he forgot himself, and let the feeling wash over him. Ached just to _see_ the others, even for a minute.

When Daryl started feeling the tears in his eyes, he snapped out of it. Breathed out—hard—disgusted with himself.

It wasn't them, up there. The whole idea was stupid as hell. He was being a goddamned pussy.

And he was about to force himself to look away when the brush on the hillside stirred. A silhouette stepped out, lit from behind by the setting sun.

A slender shape—a woman's shape. She had some kind of blade in one hand—probably a machete, from the size of it. And she stabbed it into the grass, and looked out over the walkers below.

When she moved forward, the light caught in her curls of her short hair.

Carol. Looking down into his valley. At the shapes of the walkers, and the dead grass.

* * *

Carol could see one of the walkers tugging hard on the rack—dragging the stag through the grass, away from the others. Some others were pulling on the legs—trying to yank it the other way.

A gruesome, pointless tug of war.

Still, she couldn't stop _watching_ them. And so when Rick called to her, she started:

"Carol… _Carol!_"

His voice was a harsh whisper. She spun towards it. Saw his face through the trees. He learned forward:

"Got more company _close_. We've got to move—_now_."

She looked out, again, one last time. At the walkers tugging on the stag. Its rack. Its legs. Its shining coat.

And the body split open, then, and the animal fell in half. The guts spilled out over the grass.

* * *

Daryl instantly forgot how angry he'd been with himself, as he looked up at her—high on the hill. She was unmistakable, now—even though the sun was so bright it hurt to look directly at her. But she was there. Still and peaceful and so very far away.

And the walkers were in a real frenzy around the stag, now—he could hear the sound of the body splitting open. But he didn't look.

He just watched Carol.

And it was then that she turned away. Pulled her machete up from the sod. His throat tightened as she stepped back towards the trees.

She never saw him.

Moments later, she was gone.

* * *

In the end, Carol and the others gave up the search. Turned back. It was dark, and it was dangerous, and there was nothing more they could do until morning.

And Carol spent the whole trip back to the prison staring out the windows. Looking out over dark, abandoned houses. Still, winter trees.

The air was getting cold, out there. And some pretty heavy rain was coming. She could smell it in the air. Heard the low rolls of thunder, echoing off the empty roadways. Mingling with the whisper of the tires running over the asphalt.

In the car, no one was really talking. It gave her a chance to think. And of course her mind wandered to Daryl.

It was a year or so back, when they were on the run from the farm—before they made it even close to the prison. They'd wandered from place to place—scavenging what they could, and moving on.

That week, they'd settled into a ramshackle old homestead, on the side of a highway. Isolated from everything else. Quiet.

And one morning, while they were there, Carol woke even earlier than usual. There was something she wanted to do, and she didn't want anyone to interrupt it.

She walked out into the driveway—there was a garage. An old one—the sort that didn't attach to the house. She pulled up the door by its rusty handle. It creaked and complained as it folded away into the ceiling, above.

And she stepped into the dim shadows, there—around the hulking remains of an old lawnmower. Gardening tools, hanging on pegs. Sagging cardboard boxes—long forgotten years before the walkers ever came. She ran her hand over one, and her fingers left a trail in the heavy dust.

She found what she was looking for—an old workbench. She started picking through some drawers. And she laid out what she found in neat rows—screwdrivers. Heavy wrenches. A crowbar.

There had to be something better—something she could really use to make herself a weapon.

And there was. Finally, she found a large, heavy old knife. She picked it up, and held it in her hand. Tried to move with it. Attacked the empty air, imagining walkers surrounding her from the shadows.

She almost dropped the knife when she heard his voice.

"Nah—not that one."

She spun around. Daryl was there, in the garage door. Back from some early morning hunting, with a string of squirrels on his back.

He stepped inside, and his boots echoed on the concrete.

"That one ain't right for your hand."

He reached out, and took the knife. Felt its weight, then dropped it onto the table.

"Too bulky—you wanna be able to move with it. Like it's part of your arm."

He turned. Started rummaging in his bag. Pulled out a knife—a smaller one. Sharper, with a long blade.

"Here."

He pressed it into her hand. She looked at it, and back to him.

"But that's your knife…"

He walked towards the door, again. Shrugged.

"Now it's yours."

* * *

Daryl lay there, and watched the sky go dark. Listened to the thunder as the storm front rolled in. Soon, a few raindrops landed on his cheek. Moments later, it was pouring.

The girl in the sundress was picking at the remains of the deer. Searching for the guts strewn out over the grass. Eating. It was all the damn things _ever_ did. By now, the sound of it was driving him nuts. Whenever she got close to the fallen tree, he could see her face. The raindrops drew clear trails through the blood on her skin.

The science teacher was with her. The grey shapes of the others.

But the water—it was cool and fresh on his face.

When it pooled around him, in his ditch, he drank from it.

* * *

By the time the search party made it back to the prison, it was pitch black and pouring rain. Carol hung back, a bit, as the others drifted into the cellblock. She wanted a moment alone, to catch her breath.

When she stepped into the main area, the rest were already talking over their next move. She heard Glenn's voice—echoing a little on the concrete:

"We don't even know if that's where he _went_, for sure."

"He might show up on his own," Beth said, "He did _before_, back at home, when he was lookin' for…"

She trailed off. Didn't say the name. And Rick stepped in—filled the silence:

"That whole area… it's dangerous. Swarmed with walkers now, even if it wasn't when he left. If he went out there…"

Something about it made Carol remember what he'd said about Andrea—all those months ago. That she was somewhere else, or dead.

So spoke up:

"No. That's what happened to me, in the tombs… and you _all_ thought I was dead. I wasn't."

"Those herds'll keep moving," Hershel said, "In a few days, they'll be gone."

She shook her head.

"In a few days, it won't _matter_."

Everyone went quiet. No one really _knew_ what to do next. Where to look… or even if they should.

And Rick—he had his eyes on the baby. Stepped towards Beth, who had her cradled in her arms. And Carol understood what that meant.

And it was enough to set Carl off. Like Carol, he knew what his father was thinking.

"Dad—how can you—"

"Look," Rick said. And he trailed off, a moment. Put a hand on temple, and shook his head.

"If it were _me_… I—"

"You can't _do this!_" Carl said, "It's _Daryl_. You save all those strangers who wanted to _kill us_, and you won't even _try?_"

Michonne touched his arm.

"Carl…"

He shook her off, spat out a few more words as he headed back into the cells:

"_Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all._"

* * *

No one sat up together, that night. Beth didn't sing. The heavy rain beat down on the tall windows.

And Carol saw Rick up there on the second level, pacing back and forth. Stopping every so often to look out at the nighttime through the panes.

Later on, she went to sit in her cell. Had her knife out, and turned it back and forth her hands.

Something moved at the door. Rick, looking in.

"Carol," he said.

And then he trailed off. Didn't have anything else _to_ say. And she could see it in his face—that whatever decision he made—to keep searching for Daryl, not to… that whichever it was, he was sure it'd be the wrong one.

So she looked up to him. Gave him a small, close-lipped smile.

"I'm ok, Rick."

She leaned forward on her bunk—towards him. Repeated herself:

"I'm ok."

He sighed.

"…I'm not."

And she wanted to say something. Something to ease the burden for him. The crushing weight of guilt he carried with him everywhere he went. But she knew Rick, and she knew he wouldn't let anyone take on a part of that load.

So she didn't say anything.

Besides, it _was_ ok. She felt calm. Sure of herself.

She'd already decided what she was going to do.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, when no one would see her, Carol sat in their makeshift kitchen, with the atlas lying out on the table. Tried to memorize as much as she could of the layout of that whole area—the forest. The highways. The hills and farms.

She tried to figure out where they'd searched, that day. Marked the perimeter with a pencil.

She had Judith on her lap. The baby was calm, and warm, and quiet—didn't need comforting. But Carol wanted to hold her, one more time, before she did what she was planning to do.

Finally, she'd studied every inch of the map, and felt there wasn't much else to be done. She paused. Looked out over the table—at her knife lying there on its side—just out of the baby's reach. Carol picked it up, and carefully scored the page. Tore the map out of the Atlas, and started folding it up to stash in her coat.

As she did it, Judith reached out, and pawed at the paper.

* * *

Dawn slowly rose on the second day. The first thing Daryl saw was the girl in the sundress, again. Up above him, past the tree, with the stag's blood clotted all over her rainsoaked hair.

He felt weak, now. His leg was throbbing, and his throat was dry.

He was starting to think he was in real trouble.

* * *

Carol stepped out into the prison yard—car keys in hand. The calm, morning air still smelled like rain. The dead grass glistened with it, in the early light.

She headed for the car she had in mind. Shifted her pack on her shoulder. The strap of her rifle.

"_Carol!_"

Maggie's voice—up above. Carol sighed. She'd known someone would be up there, keeping watch—and that she'd have to talk her way out of the prison because of it.

Maggie grabbed the wire fence of the walkway—the one they used as a sniper's perch. Leaned forward on the chain link, and looked down at Carol, where she stood there below.

"Carol! Hold up. Just—what do you think you're…?"

She cut herself off. Shook her head.

"No. _No_. You can't go out there."

Carol shifted the rifle on her shoulder, once more. Looked up at Maggie, standing there above.

"I have to."

Maggie bolted through the doorways—down the stairs. Moments later she was at Carol's side, panting for breath.

"You're gonna go _out there? Alone?_"

"Maggie… I have to."

"Carol. When you don't come—_if_ you don't come back…"

"I know," Carol said, "I _know_ what it's like out there. So you make sure no one comes looking for me, Maggie. You hear me? We can't lose anyone else."

"Did you _tell_ anyone about this? Rick?"

Carol shook her head.

"No. Couldn't. If he knew, and something happened… he'd feel responsible."

"Carol. You've never been alone out there. Hell, _I_ haven't."

"I'm ready for this, now. It's taken some time... but I am. And it'll be better with just one. Quiet. I won't draw their attention."

Maggie stopped. Stared at her. Shook her head again.

"No. _No_. It's suicide."

Carol took her arm. Leaned in close.

"Maggie. Listen. I'm going to die _anyway_. We _all_ are. It's just a matter of time. So if I'm going to die, I'm going to make it count for something."

Maggie gave her a long look. Then nodded.

"Here," she said, unbuckling her holster, "Your rifle's for long range shooting. You'll be safer if you've got a handgun."

Carol took it, and the rounds Maggie had on the belt.

"Thanks."

Maggie bit her lip, then, and pulled Carol into a tight hug. One hand on her back, the other clinging in her hair. After a moment, Carol tried to pull away—but Maggie wouldn't let go.

So Carol pushed her arms back, gently. Held Maggie's wrists a moment, in her hands.

"I'll see you later," she said.

* * *

In the end, Maggie opened the gate for her. Watched her drive through it—the engine loud in the quiet, morning air. And she locked it shut before any of the dead could reach them.

Then she stood back, and watched Carol drive away.


	3. The Cross

_Slow going, folks, but here's the next chapter! I'm sorry it comes so late! _

_Now: I have a PSA I'd like to get out there before we move on to our regularly scheduled mayhem: a little over a week ago, it came to my attention that one of my works had been plagiarized. I want to make a few things clear so this never has to happen again. If any of you are inspired by the premise, setting, original characters, or language used in my work, I welcome you to borrow from it. I think that's part of writing in a community. However, I ask that you inform me before you do it, and that you credit my work when it's posted. That's all. I feel this is a more than reasonable thing to ask. Simply cite your source._

_Ok, PSA time over! _

_This chapter opens with a scene involving Daryl's mother. It actually kind of hurt to write a version of her that was so obviously not the character I created in Down in the Willow Garden._

_Now back to the rather disturbing little mess our heroes have gotten themselves into!_

* * *

_The Cross_

When Daryl was a little kid, he woke up really early, most mornings. Hours before anyone else in the house.

And that was ok. He was pretty good at occupying himself.

Usually, he poured himself a bowl of cereal, then ate it on the kitchen floor. He'd read the cartoons in the newspaper, or play with his toys. Or he'd just enjoy sitting on the cool linoleum. Listening to the quiet of the house—while it lasted.

_This_ morning, he had his matchbox cars out. Put them in a row, and rolled them around on the kitchen floor. Made a little traffic snarl, there. Total gridlock.

The toys were hand-me-downs from Merle—pretty chipped and beat up. But they were still good.

Daryl was wheeling a little toy pickup along the seam in the linoleum when he heard his mama's footsteps, padding along down the hallway.

As she came in, she leaned down to pick up his empty cereal bowl.

"Mornin', kiddo."

And she washed the thing out in the sink. Puttered around. He remembered her bare feet, stepping over him and his cars on the floor. The hem of her terrycloth bathrobe.

Eventually, she wandered over to the kitchen table. Sat a good while, thinking. Doing whatever adults did with their time. Then she took him by surprise, by calling his name:

"Daryl."

He looked up. She was just sitting there. Had her coffee mug, and was drinking something from it.

Maybe coffee.

"Daryl, honey. C'mere a minute."

He hesitated, and she gestured to him. All her big rings clacking together on her hand:

"C'mon, _c'mere_. Come sit by your mama."

So he did. She pulled him close, and he flinched a little. She got her arm around him good, and he found himself pretty much engulfed in her terrycloth bathrobe.

"Lemme tell you why God made our troubles."

And he twitched, a little. _This_ chat wasn't going to be any fun. He really had _no_ idea why she gotten on the subject. What she was thinking.

But whatever it was that'd gotten into her, it made her keep on talking:

"Now without our troubles, we don't know what got. We gotta be a little sad sometimes, so we can know the difference between what's good and what's—well… _not so good_."

She drifted off for a bit. Looked around the kitchen—at the cupboards, the walls. The tired old floor. The tiny traffic jam he'd made down there. All those little cars, with no one to drive them. Then she took a real long sip from her mug. Drank it down to the bottom.

"So you see, without our troubles… we'd never really be happy."

His mama let him go, then, and he ran back to play. Tried to forget about the whole thing.

Even though he was just a little kid at the time, he'd been pretty sure what she'd said was bullshit. And he'd been pretty sure _she_ didn't believe it, either.

* * *

As the light grew brighter on the second day, a dense winter fog lingered over the dead grass.

It was getting colder. Daryl could feel it in the air. And over time, a heavy breeze started blowing in from the north. And it pulled at the fog, and cleared it.

So that morning, Daryl could see the walkers even more clearly than before. They were all out there. Sundress girl. The science teacher. The other, familiar faces. And there was nothing between him and those faces but that fallen tree.

Clusters of leaves still clung to the branches, there. Dead ones, that were curled and withered with age. They moved in the wind. Did a little dance, rustling quietly against each other in the quiet, morning air.

And as the wind got heavier, a few tore away, all at once. Blew out into the crowd beyond his hiding place.

One hit the sundress girl on the cheek. She turned her head in the direction it came from.

In an instant, her eyes locked with his.

She let out a low growl. Started moving towards him.

* * *

Carol stepped out of the car, and onto the abandoned logging road. She'd gone as far into the forest as she could drive.

Now it was time to walk.

So just like that, she was out in the woods, alone. Exposed to whatever was out there. She found herself keenly aware of the cool, empty air. The wind. It moved over her face, and arms.

She let the car door fall shut behind her, and it made a jarring noise in the morning silence. And then she took a hesitant step forward—towards the treeline.

And all at once, the breeze stopped. As if the woods was holding its breath. Sizing her up before she stepped inside.

It only lasted a moment. Then the wind blew over her face, once more. Pulled in the branches. She wrapped her arms around herself—sheltering against the chill.

She breathed in, once—and out again.

And she turned to look back at the car. The blue paint. Wondered how long it'd be until she saw it again. Whether she'd have Daryl with her. Then she stepped into the treeline, and let the car disappear from view. The only sounds were the wind, and her boots crushing dead leaves on the dirt.

Carol didn't know it then, but she'd never come back for that car. Wouldn't see it again.

* * *

The sundress girl threw herself onto the tree branches. Lurched hard against them, and started pulling her way over—into Daryl's hiding place. She had her shoes on the tree trunk. Mud-stained keds sneakers, that used to be blue.

And Daryl strained to look past her, through the branches. The others were starting to notice where she was going. Already, the science teacher had turned in their direction. Was heading for the tree.

He let out a grunt. Threw himself down, and groped around in the ditch—ignored the pain in his leg, and searched for his crossbow, lying somewhere at his side in the dirt.

If he dropped her now, there might be a chance. The others might lose interest before they saw him.

Moments later, he clutched the bow in his hands. Tried to steady his arms—to aim straight. The effort weighed on him—the crossbow felt like it was made out of lead. His vision was blurring.

But he had to get her in one shot, no matter how dizzy he felt.

A thrill ran through his gut as her dead eyes bored into him. And all at once, Daryl realized he was frightened. _Really_ frightened. Much, much more frightened this time than he'd ever been before, when the shit went down.

As the girl scrabbled through the branches—as he took careful aim—he thought about his mama. What she'd said about God and our troubles, way back when he was just a little kid.

And it seemed to Daryl that she got the whole thing fucked up. She'd gone about it backwards. When you don't got nothing, you don't know what you can _lose_.

You need a little bit of happiness before you can truly be afraid.

* * *

Carol moved through the trees, as silently as she could. Over the soft carpet of pine needles covering the roots. There were shapes in the distance, here and there—had been for the hour or so she'd been hiking. The dead, aimlessly wandering through the winter cold.

So far, she'd been able to evade them. Moved from tree to tree to tree, carefully keeping her distance from the clusters of walkers here and there. And she'd been right—with what she'd said to Maggie.

With just one person, it was easier to escape their notice.

And now, she pulled herself behind a tree. Hid from a few—off on the other side of a stand of briars. Checked them out, carefully, from that hiding place. A couple dozen, maybe, from what she could see.

Carol reached into her bag. Pulled out the skein of yarn she'd stashed there. A bright, fire-engine red.

Behind her—back where she came from—there were rows and rows of trees, with the same red yarn tied around the trunks. Stretching off and away, out of sight.

She pulled her knife, and cut off a length of yarn. Looked at the blade, a moment, before sheathing it, again.

That was the same knife Daryl gave her, over a year ago. The one she'd brought into the tombs, and lost there—buried in a walker's jaw. It was Daryl who found it again—way out deep, in the prison halls.

And after he found the knife, Daryl found her.

She wrapped the bit of yarn around the tree trunk. Tied it in a careful bow—the same kind she'd tie on Sophia's birthday presents, each year.

And she thought about it all. The knife, the tombs, and Daryl.

And somehow, it made her remember something else. Sitting with him, over coffee, one winter morning last year. At some kitchen table in some random safehouse where they'd all stayed a few nights. Slept on bedrolls and old blankets, side-by-side on the living room floor.

He'd taken to visiting with her, when she was alone. Giving her little bits of advice. How to survive. What to do when trouble came. Just here and there. He'd bring them up out of nowhere, and answer whatever questions she had, and let it drop.

And that morning, at that kitchen table, Daryl told her what to do if she ever got lost:

"You ever get separated—it's water and shelter you're gonna need most. And if you have to wander off somewhere to _get_ those things, you leave some kinda trail."

"A trail?"

He paused a moment, like the question made him uncomfortable. Like he didn't really know if he should explain. Like he'd painted himself into a corner, and couldn't get out again.

But after a moment, he pushed through, and said it:

"… so I can come after you. Find you again."

So now—in the forest, she'd leave a trail. Yarn bows on the trees, all in a row like a trail of breadcrumbs. But he wasn't coming after _her_. She'd do it to find her _own_ way back.

Because _nobody_ was going to look for her. Not this time.

Carol had to look out for herself.

* * *

Sundress girl reached for Daryl—almost close enough to touch. Leaned in over the tree, at point blank range.

He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

The crossbow didn't shoot. Made a stunted clicking noise, and did nothing.

And as she pulled her way into the ditch—almost on top of him, now—Daryl remembered that crazy guy coming at him… how he fell right on top of his crossbow when he got shot.

Seconds reeled by. Her hands were reaching in at him. And somehow he felt detached from it. Found himself thinking about the crossbow. Must've broke the damned thing—fucked up the works, somehow.

Left it useless.

"_Shit_," he whispered, under his breath. His voice was hoarse in his throat—raw. He hadn't spoken for well over a day.

She climbed into the hollow, and moved to take hold of him. The others weren't far behind.

* * *

For Carol, the morning passed slowly. She wandered the woods. Evaded the walkers—quiet on her feet, alone.

Eventually, she saw something through the trees. Something that caught the light, in the distance. As she got closer, she saw there was open water, there. A wide creek.

Carol remembered it from the map. Drifted to the water's edge—grassy and open. The hazy, morning light filtered through the trees in beams, there. The rush of the current flowed along in front of her—loud against the river rocks.

She crouched down at the bank. Spread the map on the winter grass, and leaned over it.

And in that moment, there was a movement on the other side of the water. Carol started, and whipped her head up.

A lone deer was standing there. A fallow doe, if she recognized the patterns on its coat. The thing stared at her, a moment—cautious. Carol didn't move.

Eventually, it stepped over the river stones. Gracefully. Silently.

"Hey there," Carol said, softly. And the thing didn't startle. Just looked at her with those dark eyes. And then it craned its long neck, and starting drinking from the water.

"I don't suppose you've seen a hunter around here?" she asked, smiling to herself, a little.

"About five-foot-ten… kind of grouchy?"

The deer stared. Carol tilted her head to the side.

"No? Well… that's ok. I'll keep looking."

And she chuckled to herself, quietly. Couldn't hear the sound over the rush of the water in front of her. Looked down at the map, again—heartened, somehow, not to be alone, for a moment.

And she shook her head to herself:

"Really… it's lucky for you that you _didn't_. He'd think you looked pretty delicious."

And she tried to figure out where, exactly, she was. Her finger trailed over the map. Followed the course of the creek. Her other hand held the map down—her palm flat on the paper, covering the valley where she'd seen the stag, the day before.

If _Daryl_ had found that stag, instead of those walkers, he could have brought it back to the prison. Would have fed everybody with the thing.

And Carol smiled to herself, at that. Thought of how thrilled he'd be to bring that much food home. How hard he'd try to hide it.

But she'd know.

In that instant—while she was thinking about Daryl—the doe moved. She caught the movement from the corner of her eye. When she looked up, she saw the thing was frozen in place—head up, ears stock straight, and muscles tensed.

A moment later, Carol saw the reflections of the walkers behind her.

She spun around, and there they were. About a dozen that she could see, pushing through the trees—towards her.

* * *

_This is how I die_.

Ages and ages ago, when the farm was overrun, that's what floated through Carol's mind as she backed up against the shed. Surrounded by walkers on all sides, with seconds left before they got her. And even with them closing in like that, she didn't really do much to stop it. Just clung to a bit of wood she'd found on the ground—knowing full well there was no _way_ she'd be able to kill any of them with it.

So that was it. That was the way she was going to die. Later on, she'd remember how it felt, in the moment. As if she wasn't really _there_. As if she was just watching a story play out in front of her face.

But as it turned out, she'd been wrong. That _wasn't_ how she died. Andrea saved her, and Carol got another chance. Extra time, to do… something.

Something important, she'd hoped.

And later, when T-Dog was bit, she was _certain_ that extra time had run out. She remembered bolting through the door, behind him, and into the bright light of the yard.

She didn't have even a moment to get her bearings. She nearly plowed into the chest of the first walker, the instant she was outside. It grabbed her arm, and she struggled.

And the same thought came back to her:

_This is how I die._

But she killed the thing. Barely got it with her knife. Didn't die.

There were too many to kill them all, and so she had to double back—darted inside again. In the hall, the others had T-Dog on the ground, then. Were in too much of a frenzy to even notice her.

The blood was everywhere.

Her scarf fell off as she darted past them—she didn't even notice it until later. She just ran.

And Carol knew there were more dead in the halls. She darted to the left—totally blind. Didn't know where the hell she was _going_. And she could hear something moving behind her. Couldn't see it—but she knew full well what it was. So she gripped the hilt of her hunting knife. Hard. Waited for it to come.

She didn't have a weapon the first time, at the farm. Not really. So she'd had no chance to fight.

In the tombs, she did.

* * *

Daryl dropped the crossbow. Pushed himself up on his hands. Grabbed sundress girl by the collar bone, and buried his knife in her eye. His vision swam with the effort. He bit at his lip—hard. Desperately struggling not to black out.

Without stopping to pull out the knife, he dropped the body, and she slumped over against his side.

And the others were coming. He could hear the sound of them heading closer.

He had to divert them, or they'd rip him to shreds.

And he had nothing. _Nothing_. A single knife, and a dead girl. A shot leg, and a useless crossbow.

But it came to him. The _crossbow_.

He grabbed it. Hurled it out over the tree—as hard and fast as he could manage.

He sheltered behind the tree branches, a moment. Watched them. Most of the crowd turned towards the motion. Followed the thing off towards where it landed—somewhere out near the mangled body of the guy who shot him, two days before. They were too damn stupid to know any better.

But that wouldn't distract all of them.

So Daryl dropped back to the ground. Grabbed the dead girl's shoulders, and tugged her over his body, face down. He almost chuckled to himself then—thinking about that—giddy with exhaustion.

_Daryl, you sly dog. You got yourself a date with death. And just _look_—she's all fucking _over_ you_.

Moments later, he heard the shuffling feet. The science teacher was close. Some of the others. Hovering above the pair of them—straining to look for whatever'd been moving over here. And Daryl hid his face beneath the girl. Didn't look. But could sense them, lingering there—felt the shadows moving over his hiding place. Heard the sounds of the hollow groans, mingling with the wind in the trees.

But they didn't attack—at least not at _first_. Couldn't tell the difference between Daryl and the corpse he was holding against his body.

To the walkers, Daryl was just as dead as the rest of them.

He held his breath. Tried not to move. Listened to the leaden feet pacing the grass, all around him. Time narrowed down to moments. They'd notice him—any second now. It was just a matter of time.

And he couldn't move. Couldn't fight. Could hardly _breathe_. So he just waited. Sundress girl's matted hair spilled out over his face—one cold cheek pressed close against his forehead.

Above that, the hilt of his knife hung out from her eye.

* * *

At the edge of the creek, Carol realized she'd gotten swarmed. So she set off running along the bank—cursing herself for losing focus long enough to let it happen.

With the rush of the water in her ears, she'd never heard them _coming_.

There was nothing for it but to outrun them—to loop around the far edge of the crowd, and slip back into the woods. She made her move. Spun around a tree, and nearly hit one of them head-on.

She jumped back. It snarled, and stretched out its arms for her.

Carol's mind reeled. They'd mob her in moments. And she was penned in against the edge of the creek.

No way out.

So she whipped around, and ran into the water. It was the only way _to_ go.

The current was frigidly cold, and stabbed into her skin as she pushed forward. Seconds later, there was the sound of the walkers splashing in after her. She didn't turn to look. Just kept going.

Soon, she found herself waist-deep. Then up to her chest. The current pulled at her, and she pressed on against it. Her boots grew heavy—soaked full through and pulling her downwards with every step. Painfully slow—like one of those dreams she used to get so much. Where something's chasing you, and you can barely move.

The moans got louder—loud enough to hear over the water. Just behind her.

She only had a moment to register that before the thing got her by the arm. She shrieked. Jerked herself backwards. Lost her balance, and fell.

The water surrounded her in an instant. Everything went quiet. There was a dim light from above, and dead hands reaching for her throat.

She couldn't breathe.

And in that moment, the same thought started up in her mind:

_This is how I—_

_No._

She threw out one arm—pushed the walker back. Reached for her knife with the other.

* * *

In the end, it was the crows who saved Daryl. He was _that_ helpless. A flock of fucking _birds_ was the only thing that distracted the dead. Drew them away before they could attack.

They'd come for the bodies—of course. There were always birds trailing along after the walkers—picking at scraps they left behind. Picking at the walkers _themselves_, if the damn things were bold enough.

Even so, the birds always seemed uneasy about the whole thing. If they were too slow, one of the dead would grab at them.

So it was eat or be eaten, for those birds.

The crows fluttered around on the grass, beyond his hiding place. Moved in to pick at the guts spread out there. He could sense the fluttering wings, out of the corner of his eye.

It was a familiar dance. The walkers moved in for the birds. And the birds darted away, nervously. Bit by bit—across the field. Each trying to get at the other.

A few minutes later, the whole crowd was on the far side of the valley. A while after that, the birds took off in the air, all at once.

And the dead started filtering out into the farmland, after them. Moving away.

And just like that, Daryl was on his own. Behind the tree in an empty field nestled low against the hillside.

An hour later, he couldn't see a single walker out there—even in the far distance. They'd wandered out along the edge of the trees and disappeared.

So he figured it was his chance. He'd _drag_ himself to the truck, if he had to.

So he tried to stand up, and couldn't. The pain shot through him, and he collapsed back onto the dirt. Nauseous.

He tried pushing forward on his arms, and got about six inches before he had to lay down again. The effort left him seeing stars.

"_Damn it_…"

He was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. And he lay there, limply, staring up at the cloudy sky.

It was getting bad. Really bad.

He was starting to get the feeling this was how he was going to die.

And so he let his mind wander. There was nothing else to do. Thought of lots of stuff from the past. Home. His parents. Merle.

And Merle. Daryl had sort of thought he might come to visit him, again—like he did when Daryl was out hunting for Sophia. When he got hurt out there. Almost died.

But Merle didn't come. And Daryl figured it was because it was _different_ now. So different from how it had been when he fell down that ravine.

Because before, he knew Merle was off in the world, somewhere.

Now, Merle was dead.

* * *

Carol struggled with the thing in the water. Neither of them had any purchase. Just floated in the current—out of control.

She strained with the walker. Pushed at it, trying to keep its teeth away from her skin. Its hands were all over her. Pawing at her clothes—her coat. Soon, the coat was halfway off her body. And she shrugged it away, then. Felt it dragging in the current, until the water pulled it away from her.

And she fumbled with her belt for the knife—the snap there, on the sheath. Finally, she felt it pop open. Pulled the thing by the hilt, and clung at it desperately.

She couldn't lose it, again.

The light was green in the water. Murky. The arms above her flailed and strained. Beyond that, she saw some other shapes. Maybe legs, wading in for her.

And something hit her shoulder—hard. And again. Again. A moment later, she realized it was some of the river stones. And one got her square in the back, and for a moment, she was pinned in place.

She took the chance. Found her purchase and grabbed for the walker's neck. Threw all her weight forward, and rammed the blade home.

Carol pushed on the body—forcing it down into the river mud. Burst up from the water, gasping for air. Knife still in hand. Looked around.

She'd ended up a good ways down the creek. But the others were still coming for her.

She pulled her way over to the bank. Climbed up the rocks. Heard the dead splashing through the current, behind her.

The moment she was upright, she ran.

And _as_ she ran, Carol realized she'd lost her pack. Her rifle. She only had the knife in hand, and Maggie's gun on her belt.

She could hear a few of them behind her, still. The dead. They were unstoppable. Just kept coming and coming until they got what they wanted.

As she pushed through the trees, the story she'd read Judith floated up in her mind:

_How could I bring myself to abandon my own children alone in the woods? Wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces._

* * *

The silence around Daryl was deafening. It pushed in around him from all sides. Without the walkers—their endless groans—he was all alone with his thoughts.

It wasn't quite sundown, yet. Soon, the light would start to dim in the trees. The shadows would get long on the grass, and things would get dark.

He shifted in place. Felt his bones creaking with the effort, and let out a groan. Rolled backwards, and his side pressed against the tree trunk.

And he felt something—something he hadn't noticed before. In his coat.

There was something _there_—in his coat pocket.

He reached in. Pulled the thing out.

A granola bar. And he immediately knew how it got there.

"_Carol_," he whispered.

He held it in one hand. Just felt the weight of it, there—half-crushed, with a little smudge of his blood on the wrapper. He turned it over in his fingers. Listened to that wrapper crinkle in his hand. And even in the moment, he wasn't really sure why he was doing it.

But it made him feel a little better.

* * *

Finally, Carol used Maggie's gun. Let them come close, and took out as many as she could. Aimed, and fired. Aimed, and fired. Tried to think of it just like all the other times she'd shot at the dead—as if there was a fence between them. As if all her friends were right there, and they were all backing each other up.

The last one, she took with the knife. Rammed it against a tree with a grunt, and killed it.

She needed to save her ammo. She only had the clips from Maggie's belt, left.

And she was alone—for the moment. Those gunshots would call whatever else was there. And she'd been running for what felt like forever—but she _had_ to keep moving.

Carol looked around at the trees. Tried to figure out what direction she'd come from—and couldn't. Didn't know where the creek was. Had left her map behind, and most everything else she'd brought along with her.

She was out in the thick woods—completely and utterly lost.

But she tried to shake it off. Keep her head. Breathed in, hard, and took off running, again. Went as far as she could while her legs ached and her side screamed against the effort.

Over time, the woods grew denser around her—a tangled mess of vines and bushes were choking the trees. She had to force her way through them to keep moving. And she knew she was somewhere out deep—far further in than the group had ever made it the day before.

The air seemed to hang on the branches. To drape off of them like the dead briars. The ground was marshy and wet.

She pressed on. Plunged her hand into one of the bushes.

And she dislodged something that had been stuck there. It fell at her feet. She jumped back with a gasp.

Then she crouched over to look at it.

The body of a crow. Half mummified, and plucked nearly naked. One wing torn away—missing.

She bit her lip. Looked away. Stepped over it, and moved further in—trying to get away from that _thing_. It gave her a bad feeling.

But as she moved forward, there were black feathers scattered all through the bushes—tangled in the leaves. As she shook the branches, some of them floated to the ground.

And Carol wasn't sure if a walker would _do_ something that. Pluck the feathers from something's flesh, and leave the body.

She started to wonder if she was really alone in these woods.

* * *

For Daryl, the late afternoon dragged on slow.

He looked at the walker, lying beside him in the dirt. The girl with the sundress. Her pale face. The hilt of his buck knife, buried deep in one eye.

And he thought of the granola bar. Looked at it—still resting there in his hand.

Maybe he should eat it.

But it was small. Barely weighed anything. Wasn't _close_ to enough food to feed a man.

And Carol put it there for him. And it was all he _had_. If he ate it, he wouldn't have anything left.

Eating it felt too much like giving up. So he just held it, and watched the clouds drift by.

* * *

Beyond those briars, the woods cleared up a bit. The light started getting low, and Carol started to think she needed to find a place to hide until morning.

She kept walking. Looking for a good spot. The trees were tall here. She hadn't noticed much wildlife. No squirrels. No birdsong.

Her wet clothes hung on her body. Over time, Carol realized she was shivering. Started wondering if she was risking hypothermia, when it got dark.

And she knew this was about more than saving Daryl, now. If she didn't find him—if they didn't help each other get _out_ of here… they'd both die.

There was a clearing ahead. A brighter spot in the dim light. So she went that way.

The moment she pushed out through the trees, she saw the thing.

A makeshift cross. Made from a tree branch—hacked off the trunk with a hatchet, maybe. The branch was stabbed firmly into the ground.

And the other beam… one side was made from a severed arm. Pale and rotting. Fingers drooping down towards the dirt.

The other side was a crow's wing. When she stepped closer to look at it, she saw the thing was lashed together with twine.

And Carol knew for sure, then.

She _wasn't_ alone.


	4. The God of Death

_Chapter four of six for you, today. I hope you enjoy it. The woods in this chapter have been an interesting place to visit, as I wrote the last week or two._

_But I can't say I'd want to live there._

* * *

_The God of Death_

Carol was frozen in place—just staring at the cross. She didn't realize it, but she was holding her breath.

The thing looked like it'd been there a good, long while. The skin on the hand was grey and withered—its fingernails stained with mold. Vines had grown up from the groundcover, through the summer, and wound their way around the crow's wing. Now the leaves were yellow and dead. The gentle wind pulled on them, there.

And Carol—that small breeze cut right through her. She curled into herself against the cold.

A sound broke the silence. Behind her—in the trees.

And again. Getting louder.

Something was crashing around out there. Clumsy. Slow.

She whipped around. Stared into the swelling shadows. Heard the underbrush breaking beneath slow footsteps. Another walker, maybe.

Or something else.

Carol breathed in—hard—and bolted in the other direction. Disappeared into the dense underbrush, and left the cross behind.

* * *

As evening settled in, Daryl found himself thinking about the walkers. How they'd wandered off and left him here, alone.

Everything was so _quiet_. He only had the sundress girl for company. She was lying there at his side, even now.

The smell was pretty bad—but that was the least of his worries.

Daryl looked her over. At his knife lodged there, in her eye. And he wondered, a bit, about who she was. What kind of story she would tell about herself, if she could.

Before she came after him—before he put her down—she was always next to the science teacher, in the crowd. Maybe they were used to that. Being together. Maybe they knew each other, before they died.

She had a ring on, so maybe he was her husband. One of those older guys who managed to snag some pretty little thing. Or he was her father, and he gave her away when she got that wedding band.

In any case, it didn't matter, now. They were dead. And the science teacher was long gone—wandered off who knows where. And wherever he was, he'd eat everything he could get his hands on. He'd keep on doing it until _he_ got put down. Or until he rotted so bad he couldn't move, any more.

The girl was still here, though. So Daryl reached out. Pulled the wedding ring off her limp hand. Wanted to look at it. See if he could learn anything about who she was. How she got here.

The band caught the light as he turned it in his fingers. There was an engraving inside, in scrolling script:

_Forever_

And that's when she started talking to him.

"You've got my ring."

"Sorry," Daryl said, rolling onto his side, "Looks like you were plannin' on wearin' it forever."

And he took her hand, again. Slipped it back on her finger, for her. She threw him a little smile.

"That's ok. Forever's a long time."

* * *

The brush was dense, out this deep. So thick it finally became impassible. If Carol tried to push her way through, it'd tear her skin to shreds.

So she trailed along the outskirts—unsure where to go, or what to do.

It was getting dark. In front of her, the patterns of the branches covered the ground in long, tangled shadows.

And she knew someone was out here. _Someone_ put that cross there. And whoever it was, it _meant_ something to them.

She thought about it. The arm, the wing. The tree. Three different sorts of limbs, tied together. All alone in the deep woods, standing there like some primitive ward against evil.

Soon, she started coming onto paths cut into the mess of briars. Narrow little alleys—barely wide enough to pass through. Even from outside, she could see how rough and uneven they were. It seemed like they'd been hacked out by hand with brute determination—maybe with a hatchet, or a pair of shears.

And it was obvious, to Carol, why those paths were there.

Someone used them to move safely, and keep the walkers out.

Someone _lived_ here.

And if someone lived here—someone who gathered up dead things. Someone who hid in the dark… that someone might have had a run-in with Daryl.

In that moment—in her heart—she was sure of it. Daryl met up with something different, on that hunting trip. Not just walkers. Something new that he didn't expect.

_That's_ why he never came home, that day.

And the answer might be in that maze, or past it.

She stopped in front of one of those pathways. A long, narrow tunnel that went on and on, until it faded away into darkness.

Carol steeled herself up, as best she could, and made her way through the mouth of the maze.

* * *

"It's getting dark" Daryl murmured. He was watching the patterns of the tree branches moving on his boots—cast there by the long, low light.

The girl chuckled, lightly.

"I'll say."

And something about it. The tone of her voice—he didn't think she was talking about the sky.

He looked up into it. The clouds, painted with colors by the fading sun. Purples and pinks and rich orange—blended together like the colors on spilled motor oil. Like a puddle of the stuff in the driveway back home, while Merle worked on his bike on some short-lived visit.

Thinking of that, it all came back. The sound of the family dog's panting breath. The smell of Merle's cigarettes. The purr of the engine on that old Triumph, as they revved her on up. The sound of insects in the air. The heat of the sun. The kiss of summer wind gliding over their shoulders…

"I'm dying," Daryl said.

"Yeah. I think so."

He took that in. Tried to absorb it.

"What's it like? I mean… to die?"

"I dunno. Don't really remember it too good."

She shrugged.

"It's been a while."

* * *

The path was so tight, Carol had trouble getting through. The blunted ends of the branches scraped at her arms. Her shoulders. They pushed in on her, like they wanted to squeeze shut and enfold her.

She had to move through the thing sideways, in places. It was slow going.

Soon, she couldn't see the entrance anymore. Just darkness on all sides, with a patch of sky up above.

The old claustrophobia nagged at her—the bad kind she used to get when she was younger. Like an itch you can't scratch, that just got stronger over time.

Carol stopped in place. Tried to breathe. Leaned against the branches. Felt them pressing into her back. Looked up at the sky. At the stained glass colors of the sunset, soft and gentle and far away.

She'd promised herself a long time ago she wouldn't be afraid anymore. Not ever, ever again.

So she turned. Moved to keep going, and nearly put her foot into the bear trap on the ground.

She gasped. Jolted backwards—so she nearly fell over. Stared at the thing, breathing hard.

That trap was loaded—ready to spring. Overgrown with dead grass.

It would have shattered her ankle to slivers.

Her hand drifted to her chest. She could feel her heart beating under her fingers. And she knelt down to look at the trap. Those mean, steel teeth.

They were absolutely _coated_ with scummy, dried old blood.

The thing had caught a lot of walkers in its time. Maybe other things, too. Someone checked it, every so often. Took away whatever was trapped there. Reset it each time, but didn't wipe it clean.

She started feeling sick.

"_Keep it together_," she whispered.

None of that mattered, right now. She had to keep moving. And she had to be careful.

So Carol stepped over the trap. Moved on, as the sunset faded away at her back.

* * *

For Daryl, having someone with him was strange, at first. It'd been a few days since he'd talked to someone. And for once, he kind of liked the company.

After all, nobody wants to die alone.

They were face to face in that ditch—close together. Talking quietly about what it was like to die.

"So," he said, "No one's gonna put me down when I change over, huh…"

It took a moment for the girl to answer.

"… It don't really look like it. I'm sorry."

"So I turn."

"So you do."

He looked at her. At his knife, buried deep in her eye.

He'd done that. But she couldn't return the favor.

"…what's it like? Wakin' up that way… bein' one of them things?"

She shrugged.

"Ain't so bad, really."

He chuckled, at that.

"What you gonna tell me? It's a way to meet new people? Gets you out in the fresh air?"

She smiled. His knife wobbled in her eye socket as she did it.

"Somethin' like that."

"Nah. You're just bullshittin' me."

Girls always wanted to make you feel better. But he wasn't having it. And as if she read his mind, she kept on going:

"I _ain't _bullshittin' you. I tell you, it _ain't_ bad. When you're one of _them_, nothing's bad no more. Cause there _ain't_ no bad or good. No hot or cold or happy or sad. There's… nothing."

She sighed.

"Just… nothing."

* * *

A little further on, Carol noticed the paths getting wider. Starting to merge together.

And there was another bear trap. And beyond that, another.

Finally, she came on one that had a foot stuck in it. Nothing else. Just the foot—torn from the leg, roughly at the ankle. It had a muddy, old sneaker on. A gym sock—stained and brown.

All around it, the ground was drenched with blood.

And that _couldn't_ be from the foot. That thing was rotted and old. But the blood was fresh. It smeared all along the low branches, past that trap. Wet and red.

It made a trail. Whoever it belonged to, they'd left a path for her to follow.

So she followed it.

And it seemed to lead straight to the other side of the maze. Soon, the alleys opened up into a neatly cleared grove of ash trees.

She squinted. Tried to gain her bearings in the swelling dark. There was something hanging from the trees on strings. Rows and rows of somethings. White things—small. Like beads, or bits of bone.

She reached out. Touched the first of them. The string trembled, and filled the air with a quiet, rattling sound.

Teeth. They were human teeth. And as her eyes adjusted, Carol looked further into the mess. There had to be hundreds of them. Thousands. Gathered from walkers somebody killed. The strings were stained with black blood.

She couldn't stop now. So she moved into them. They hit her face and hands and arms. Fell against her cheeks—light and smooth—and then slid away again. And every move she made filled the air with a cascade of rattling noises, rippling from string to string to string.

And Carol remembered. Years ago—back at the quarry—they'd put cans on strings around the trees near the campsite. To make noise. So they could hear the walkers coming.

It hadn't worked.

She was thinking of that when she heard the sound behind her. That same, rattling sound of the teeth hitting against each other.

Something was coming.

Carol drew her knife.

She heard the walker snarling before she saw it. The one from the bear trap—missing its foot. Crawling on the dirt. When it noticed her, it tried to stand. Fell. Kept dragging itself forward. Trying again. Getting up, and toppling over. All around it, the teeth bounced and flailed on their strings.

Carol watched it fumbling its way forward. Pushing itself upright over and over and over again. It didn't know enough to realize its foot was gone. It just kept flailing around, all the same.

And she thought of Daryl. It was closing in on the third day since he'd been gone.

When she found him—_if_ she found him, it could be like this.

The walker was just a yard away, now. Pushed itself up, and fell over again. Landed at Carol's feet.

So she kicked it in the face. Laid it out flat. Planted her boot on its chest, and stabbed it as hard as she could.

* * *

Daryl kept on staring at his boots. The twining silhouettes of the tree branches, there. Watched them fade as the sky grew dim. Slowly, they melded together with the nighttime darkness, and disappeared.

"What's your name?" he asked the girl.

"I don't got a name—I'm _dead_. None of us do."

He shook his head.

"Nah. No way. Merle—Merle. He's got one."

She looked at him, sadly. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.

"Ain't nobody named Merle, no more. That's just a name you've kept for yourself."

"He's gone."

"Yeah," she said, "He is."

"And me? … what the hell am I?"

"Well, Daryl… you're still here. You're not gone quite yet."

* * *

Past the ash grove, the trail of blood kept winding forward. Soon, Carol found herself into an open clearing. A campsite.

It was dirty. Had a faint smell of rotten food. There were empty crates on their sides, all around. Loose tarps flapped in the breeze.

On the ground, there were empty MRE packages scattered everywhere. Empty boxes of ammunition. At the side, Carol saw a neat row of plastic jugs—full of water.

As she moved further in, she started seeing long, thin strands of something on the ground.

Pieces of long, blonde hair. The wind picked up, and they floated in the updraft. One strand caught on Carol's finger, then blew away from her in slow swirls.

And the trail of blood led through the mess, straight to the solitary tent at the back.

Something in there was making sounds. It sighed. Moved.

"Daryl…?"

There was a gasp in there. Rustling.

It didn't sound like Daryl, to her.

Carol inched up to the tent flap. It was unzipped—flailing in the wind.

She caught it with one hand. Clung to Maggie's handgun with the other.

Carol ripped open the flap, and darted back with the gun raised.

There was a woman inside.

Curled up way at the back of the tent. Barely dressed—just a camisole. Underwear. Carol could see a mess of clothes and blankets strewn all around her.

And her hair… there were strands of it everywhere. All over the tent. Twined in her fingers. Covering the floor.

When the woman turned her face, Carol saw where she'd been ripping it out of her scalp.

* * *

It was getting colder.

Daryl huddled into his jacket. What remained of his shirt. The ditch had mostly dried out from the rain that first night. If it hadn't, he'd be freezing.

Really, that might've been better than what _was_ happening. He'd always heard the cold was a pretty peaceful way to go.

The girl spoke up again. As if she didn't like him thinking that way.

"It'll be alright, Daryl."

It was that gentle tone girls sometimes use. The one that made him so skittish when they pulled it out:

"No matter what, it's all gonna be ok."

And she reached out. Touched his hair. He jerked his head back. But she just kept on talking:

"You can just sleep, now, if you want to."

And part of him… part of him _did_ want to. She could hold him—stroke his hair—and he could just let go.

But when she laid a hand against his face, he pulled away again.

"_Stop_ _it_."

"I'll stay with you the whole time."

"Stop _talking_."

She got persistent, then. Leaned in to look at him.

"You know… you put that ring on me—does that mean we're married?"

He let out a hard breath. Women _always_ seemed to want to get their hooks into you.

And her tone changed, at that. She knew what he was thinking—and started getting angry. Leaned in closer—the knife hilt dangling down just above his face. And she threw her words at him—letting out sticky, dark spittle that smelled like blood:

"Shape your leg's in, you won't be gettin' very far once you change over. You'll be floppin' around like a wounded hound dog. Like the time your daddy saw Bud's leg was broke and he got out the shovel and—"

"_Stop it_."

"And that means we're gonna be spending a _good long time together_, you and me. Right here in this ditch. We're gonna share a grave, just like we really _did_ get married—"

He grabbed her shoulders, and shouted in her face. The effort made him dizzy.

"_Shut the fuck_—"

"Forever, Daryl."

And he couldn't hold on anymore—couldn't fight her. He felt the blackness filling his vision. Swelling over him like a wave.

He could still hear her voice, as everything went dark.

"_Forever_…"

* * *

The woman was staring at Carol with blank horror. Did it for a good, long time.

Finally, she spoke up:

"You can't… you can't _be here_."

Her voice hitched in her throat. Carol lowered her gun, and stepped into the mouth of the tent.

"Hey, hey—it's ok. It's ok."

The woman looked like she was about to cry. She was biting one knuckle. Carol knelt at the front of the tent, and looked her over.

Her eyes were bright. Her face was pale. She was sweating. Carol knew those signs.

The woman was bit. Had the fever. The trail of blood that lead here must have come from the wound.

Poor thing.

Carol regrouped. Raised her free hand.

"I'm not going to hurt you, alright? Look—I'm putting this down…"

Carol lowered the gun to the floor of the tent, and let go. Left it there, and put up her hands. After a moment, she inched forward. Found herself inside with the woman. And out of the wind—in that nylon shell—it was quiet. Hushed. As if the two of them were separate from everything going on outside.

She knelt on the floor—surrounded by dirty blankets, and the acrid smell of old sweat. Carol could tell right away that the stuff hadn't been washed in years.

Some of the blankets were stained with fresh blood. From wherever the woman's bite was.

And the woman leaned forward. Got a good look at Carol—still staring at her as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"You can't _be here_. You aren't one of those _things_. You're… you're _alive_…"

She shook her head. Some loose strands of hair fell down over her collar bone.

"We were wrong…" she whispered, as if it was hard to speak, "We were wrong about _everything_…"

Carol looked at her, questioningly, and she continued:

"We thought we were the only ones _left_…"

"Left?"

"Left _alive_. Just us... us and the dead."

Carol inched closer. Came up to the woman's side. And she let Carol lay a hand on her forehead.

She was burning up.

"You're bit, aren't you?"

She nodded. And without thinking about it, Carol stroked her face.

"What happened?"

"He didn't come _back_… He's the one who goes out. I stay here."

"Who, sweetheart?" Carol asked, holding her by the cheek, "Who goes out?"

The woman's eyes dropped down to her hand, lying in her lap. When Carol followed her gaze, she saw the wedding ring on the woman's finger.

Carol understood, then.

"There'd been a stag hanging around these woods, for a while, now. He told me all about it. A big one. And he wanted… wanted to find it. Bring it home. So he went off east of here, after it—and he never _came back_. I waited and waited and he just… _didn't_."

She let out a quiet sob. Leaned in close to Carol.

"Do you think he's dead out there? Is it—could _he be dead?_"

The stag. It had to be the one in the valley. The one she'd seen when she was out with the others. And the story started to come together in Carol's mind.

If this woman's husband met up with Daryl... if they were both out looking for the same stag... they may have met each other.

That couldn't have ended well.

Carol looked at her, waiting expectantly for some opinion on whether her husband was dead.

"I don't know," Carol said.

The woman sighed.

"I'm not supposed to go out there. _Never_. It's his rule. But I went looking…"

She pulled a bit of the blankets out of the way, and showed Carol her right ankle. There was a large, wet, seeping wound.

The walker—the one that got caught in the bear trap. It must have bit her, there. Then tried to follow trail of blood she left behind.

This woman barely made it out of her own camp before getting overcome.

And the woman—she pulled at her hair, then. Started tugging on a piece of it. Carol caught her hand, and drew it gently away.

"No, honey—don't. Leave that be."

But the woman was agitated. Seemed like she needed to do something with her hands. Fumbled at the blankets, and pulled out a Bible she'd had resting at her side. Moved to open it.

Without thinking, Carol took that away from her, too.

Somehow, it gave her a bad feeling.

And the spine immediately fell open in her hands—landed in one spot, as if it'd barely ever been opened anywhere else. And there was a passage on the page, underlined over and over again:

_And the Lord will send a plague on all the nations that fought against Jerusalem. Their people will become like walking corpses, their flesh rotting away. Their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their mouths._

_On that day they will be terrified, stricken by the Lord with great panic. They will fight their neighbors hand to hand._

And there was a photograph, stuck there—face down against the other side of the page, with a little bloodstain on one corner. Carol pulled it out. Turned it over. Saw three little boys.

The youngest was around three, and the oldest around ten. They were at the seashore, playing with buckets in the sand.

And Carol could tell there were no little boys in this campsite. Had never been.

The women whispered part of the passage out loud, then. As if she knew what page the Bible fell opened to. As if it was the only thing in the book that meant anything to her:

"_And the Lord will be king over all the earth. On that day there will be one Lord—his name alone will be worshipped_."

It left Carol cold.

This world—where death was turned into crosses. Where death hung from strings on the trees. Where a mother hid a bloodstained photograph in a Bible with a broken spine.

There was only one god in their world, and both of them knew his name.

* * *

Time passed. Carol sat with the woman. Didn't really know what to say, or do. Just left a hand on her shoulder.

Eventually, the woman took that hand. Held it. With the fever, her touch burned against Carol's cold fingers.

"You're _freezing—_soaking wet…" the woman said, "… why're you _out here_, all alone?"

Carol pulled her hand away.

"It doesn't matter."

"Here."

The woman fumbled with the blankets, again. Pulled some things out.

A shirt. Pants. A jacket. The clothes she'd stripped away.

Carol looked at them. Hesitated.

"Take them," the woman said, "I… I don't need them anymore."

She grabbed a canteen, and put it on top of the pile. The water sloshed around in it as it settled, there.

"_Take them_. Don't you see? You were _sent here_. You were sent here because we _need each other_..."

And she began to cry outright, then. And Carol didn't know what to say. Just sat. Stroked what remained of the woman's hair away from her face.

And the woman. She had her eyes fixed on something—on the floor, towards the mouth of the tent. Carol turned to look.

The gun. She was staring at Maggie's gun.

"_Help me_," she whispered, pulling Carol around to look at her.

And Carol—she didn't know what to say. Found herself going silent. But the woman pressed on:

"_Please_…"

Carol's gut was cold.

She looked down at her hands.

* * *

Months before—the day Merle died, he'd stopped to talk to Carol, a bit. And it was the only real conversation they'd ever had.

He'd been asking her if they had any _whiskey_—as if she'd gladly pour a glass for him and they'd toast to better times.

Merle. He was just the right brand of asshole to get her blood boiling. He'd only been talking for a little while, and Carol was already imagining herself throwing things at his smug face.

But then… then he said something. Something different from the usual bullshit. Something that made her think.

"You ain't like you was back in the camp. Little mouse runnin' around, scared of her own shadow..."

"It wasn't my shadow. It was my husband's."

"Well, you don't seem scared of nothin' anymore."

Carol looked up at him, standing on those stairs. And right then—after everything she'd been through—she was absolutely certain she knew the answer. She wasn't afraid to die. She wasn't afraid to fight.

She wasn't afraid at all.

And so she said it:

"I'm not."

* * *

In the ash grove, the nighttime wind blew through the trees. Rattled the teeth on their strings, in the dark.

A sound broke the quiet. A single gunshot. Bright and loud—then slowly echoing away to nothing.

A short time later, Carol made her way into that grove—wearing the change of clothes she'd been given—still warm from where the woman had been sitting on them. She had the canteen of water on her belt, next to Maggie's gun.

The clothes were dirty, but they were dry. Wrapped up in the woman's long, canvas jacket, Carol finally stopped shivering.

She'd been right. They needed each other.

Carol pushed through the teeth, fast and calm.

They didn't bother her, anymore.

* * *

When Daryl opened his eyes, again, he had trouble putting together what happened.

He must've blacked out for a while. Wasn't really sure how long. But he could see night had fallen. The sky was clear, now. Overflowing with stars, spilling out all over the wide, black canopy. The milky way stretched out over his valley—clear and bright and sparkling.

So Daryl looked up at it all. The stars. The thin, silvery sliver of the waning moon. The pale glow of it all over the trees.

And he realized the sundress girl had been pretty quiet since he came to. He turned his head towards her.

"Hey…"

He paused. He didn't hear anything, so he tried again:

"_Hey_."

Nothing. She was just lying there, limp and dead.

"You still there?"

Silence. As if she'd never talked to him at all.

And he let out a breath. He was alone, again.

Just as well. He'd been kind of worried about what she might say next.

He fumbled for the granola bar. Had forgotten about it for a good while, while the girl was talking.

He'd dropped the thing when he grabbed the girl by the shoulders. It was lying on the ground at his side. So be picked it up. Turned it over in his hand, again. Listened to the wrapper crinkling in the night.

And it reminded him of what he'd been thinking about women. How they cling so hard—like his mama in that bathrobe, grabbing him and tugging him close. How he didn't know what to goddamn _do_ with them. How scared he got when they cried. How angry.

But Carol. Looking down at that granola bar she'd given him, he knew Carol wasn't like that.

She was alright.

* * *

That night, Carol hid herself against a glacial boulder, and the roots of an old oak tree.

She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. Just looked up at the moon. The spray of bright stars, above the tree branches.

East. That woman said her husband went east on his hunting trip.

So Carol would wait for the sun to start rising, and she'd follow it east. Go looking for the valley where she'd seen the stag, when she was out with the others.

Daryl might be there. Might have been tracking that stag.

She had to know.

And she wasn't sure what was going to happen. If she'd live, or die. If she'd find him. Nothing happened the way you expected, in this world.

All that horror, moving through that maze. The bear traps. Those teeth… and there was nothing behind it all but a sad, half-crazed woman, waiting to die.

Her face. That woman's _face_, as she begged Carol to kill her.

Things would never be the same.


	5. The Body

_Chapter Five of Six for you, today—a bit later than I'd wanted because I've been feeling a bit under the weather again the last couple weeks. Hopefully I can get Chapter Six out more quickly._

_And I have a couple ideas for stories, still... I might not have time to finish even one of them before the show starts up again in October. We shall see._

_I hope you enjoy this—it's taken a lot of thought and care to write. Hopefully I'll be back soon!_

* * *

_The Body_

At the quarry, mornings started early. After all—it's hard to sleep in, when you're camping. And with so many people, there were noises all over the place—starting just before dawn.

So from the moment she heard the first tent flap unzipping, Carol was awake for the morning.

It was a good time of the day, for her. Carol liked sitting out in their campsite, watching the quarry come to life. Ed wouldn't get up just then, most of the time—he was always a pretty heavy sleeper. Didn't get bothered by the noise as much as she did.

He'd always been like that. Back home, when she or Sophia would bring him a beer, he'd never turn from the tv. Just drank it. Didn't seem to notice them coming. Lived in his own little world.

_This_ morning, when Carol went out into camp, the first thing she saw was Sophia. She was crouched over on the ground—holding a stick in her hand. Playing tic-tac-toe by herself in the dirt.

She saw Carol, and her face lit up:

"Hi, Mom!"

Carol smiled to her. Settled into a lawn chair. Watched her play. In the distance, Dale stepped out of the RV. Waved towards someone—Amy, sitting out on a nearby log.

Ed woke up, while Carol was watching the others. He had this persistent morning cough—had for years, since Sophia was a toddler. Post Nasal drip. She could hear it from inside the tent. It was the same sound she'd heard every morning for years. And not long after, she heard him moving around on the canvas floor. Getting dressed. Fumbling with his belt buckle.

As Ed stepped outside, Carol started thinking it'd be a good idea to head off somewhere else. She could go find Lori, so they could make breakfast.

She got up to go do it, and immediately, Ed grabbed her wrist.

She tried to step away, and he hung onto it. Not hard, really. It'd been a long time since he'd had to grab her very hard to make a point.

And she knew what it meant. They'd been together so long, they didn't really need to talk. He could tell what she had in mind, and didn't want her to leave the campsite. Didn't want her to go to Lori.

"Ed, I need to make breakfast."

Nothing. He just looked at her. Ed was never one to talk. So she filled the silence:

"We've gotta _eat_."

He reached into his knapsack—he kept everything jumbled up in there in a mess. Wouldn't let her sort it all out.

And he pulled out one of the few MREs he'd managed to hang onto this far. A bit crushed from the other things in that bag. Held it out for her. Said two words.

"Then eat."

She could sense Sophia's eyes on her. She'd paused in her game. Just watched them. And in the distance, Carol could hear the Dixon brothers, off at their campsite—talking together, quietly.

Carol looked down at the MRE in Ed's hands, a moment. Hesitated.

But she took it. Went back to her lawn chair. Started opening it up, to share with Sophia. And Sophia scratched out her game board, in the dirt, and started on another one.

"Thank you," Carol said.

* * *

Carol set out at the first hint of dawn. Climbed out from the little hollow where she'd hidden all night. Stretched her back, and went off to look for Daryl.

She followed the pale, morning glow through the trees—east, towards the edge of the forest. Towards valley where she'd seen the stag. And the woods were empty, now. Quiet. Almost all the walkers had moved on. She tried to avoid the few that remained. Distant, lonely shapes, wandering through the trees.

And Carol had all that time to think. Her mind wandered—aimless, like those walkers. She tried to guess at what it was like at the prison, this morning. If the others had given up on her, yet. Put up another pair of crosses in that graveyard.

When Carol left the prison to search for Daryl, she'd looked back in the rearview mirror, as she drove away. She could remember the morning light winking on the concrete. Maggie's shape—small by the front fence, watching her drive off into the world.

That was a lifetime ago. She felt like she'd been alone in the woods for years.

And there was nothing to do but keep searching—moving through the blue light. Over time, it slowly turned to gold.

The air was getting colder—crisp and wintery. As she reached the edge of the woods, she could smell a thin frost out on the farmland—on the fields of tall grass, winking at her through the trees.

* * *

Daryl drifted in and out, lying there by the fallen tree.

He wasn't feeling quite as much pain, now. Everything seemed hazy and far away. Every time he opened his eyes, the gentle, morning light glared at him. It glowed on the grass.

He felt like he wasn't really there. Like he'd _never_ been there—never been real.

Everything that'd ever happened to him. Everyone and everything he knew. His home. His family. His name. It was all a dream—and he was starting to wake up.

But the granola bar—he could still feel it, in his hand. He squeezed it. Felt the wrapper shift under his fingers. He'd held the thing all through the night.

_It _felt real. Solid. The only thing that did.

He pressed it close against his chest. Closed his eyes, and drifted off, again.

* * *

Even before what happened at the barn, Carol had known that Sophia was dead.

She could _feel_ it. After a while, her blind hope faded—and she stopped ignoring what her gut was really telling her.

But even then, she didn't let anyone know. They were trying so _hard_, after all—and it didn't seem right to smother that.

She tried to keep up appearances for the others. For Daryl.

It was all she could really think to do.

But after what happened at the barn, everything changed. Knowing Sophia was dead in her heart and seeing it in front of her _face_… those were two very different things.

Carol couldn't stay at the barn, when they found Sophia, there. When Rick put her down. So she ran off—away from the others. Didn't need to worry about them. Or anything.

She ended up in the RV, somehow. And she sat there.

Everything was quiet. She felt like she was outside her own body. Like her head wasn't working right. Her insides were all hollowed out, and there was nothing beneath her ribs but an echo.

She watched the sun move over the Formica dinette. It hit some stray grains of sugar, there. Made them cast long shadows. There was a ring from a coffee mug someone hadn't wiped up. A stained napkin, crumpled and forgotten, lying there beside it.

And then a sound. The door. It opened, and a rush of hot, summer air blew in.

Carol didn't look up, but she heard the sound of his low, grumbling breath.

Daryl.

He'd followed her, here.

And she didn't care. Whether or not he was there made no difference. It was just a thing that was happening in this new place she'd found herself.

She heard his boots on the floor. And he found himself a perch, somewhere nearby. Sat, and said nothing.

She still didn't look at him. But the sound of his breathing jabbed at her—pierced through the numbness. Because it was a real sound. He was a real person.

_This is real._

_This is the way things are now. _

_This is the way they'll always be._

In that moment, something changed. Shifted inside her, and fell away.

And really—Carol died, then. Cast off everything of herself she'd known. Shed the old skin, and left the dried-up husk on the RV floor. Just another bit of litter—like the spilled sugar, or the soiled napkin.

Her insides were an empty hollow, and her outer shell had fallen away.

So she wasn't really sure what was _left_ of her, after.

* * *

Carol slipped up to a thick stand of trees. There was a solitary walker moving on the other side. A lonely shape—groaning to itself, and pacing around on the dirt.

From a distance, it'd seemed like about the right height—about five foot ten. Broad shouldered. It had a familiar look.

So Carol had snuck up close—behind the tree. Sheltered beneath the tangled briars at the trunk. Waited for the thing to turn in her direction. It seemed to take forever.

Minutes drew on and on, and it finally moved towards her. Carol saw the face, and let out a breath.

It wasn't Daryl.

So she crept away, then. Got past it, and kept on going.

Soon, she came to a clearing. And there were a few corpses lying there, on the forest floor.

As she got close, her breath caught in her throat. She _recognized_ them. They were some of the walkers she and the others killed when they were looking for Daryl. She could see the wound in one skull, where she'd hacked at it with a machete.

So for the first time in over a day, Carol knew exactly where she was.

Just beyond the next ridge, the woods would open up to that valley. The one overlooking the farmland, where she'd seen the fallen stag.

So she quickened her pace.

And before she could fully process it, she was there. Standing just where she'd been when the others clustered together, discussing their next move. The valley was _here_—just on the other side of the trees.

Carol pushed through the underbrush. Stepped out on the hill, to look down into the fields below.

* * *

After they fled from the farm, the group found themselves stranded at the side of the road. Rick's car was out of gas, and they were stuck in place, right where they'd pulled over.

So they made camp. Sat in silence. Night fell fast, and they huddled into themselves for warmth in the cold, winter darkness.

Staring into their campfire, that night, Carol was exhausted—her nerves were raw. She had no idea where they were going. What would happen next.

But _Daryl_—Daryl fell asleep. Right there beside her, slumped over on his knees. As if none of this bothered him. As if he could turn off the inner doubts like a switch, when he had to.

Carol didn't know how to do that. So the worries ate at her from the inside.

There were fewer of them left than there'd been the day before. Jimmy and Patricia were gone. _Andrea_ was gone. And that—what happened to Andrea—it was because Carol couldn't look out for herself. Because she'd needed rescuing.

_I'm a burden._

That's what she'd said to Daryl, before he fell asleep. And saying it cut to the bone, for her. Because it was pathetic. Because it was _true_.

And Daryl—he didn't really understand. Asked her what she wanted, after that. And Carol—she wanted so much more than she'd been able to explain to him. She wanted things to be _different_. So different from what they were.

She'd been an empty shell, through the last days on the farm. Time stretched on and on, and the world started feeling like it was painted in grey. All sawdust and ashes.

Sophia was dead—but Carol was alive. She'd been given some kind of chance—a chance paid for in blood.

So she had to take it.

* * *

Time passed. Daryl looked up at the light swelling in the morning sky. It all seemed hazy—he had trouble focusing his eyes. Everything was strange, like he was under water.

And all at once, he sensed a movement. Turned his head. Saw a shape up above, standing over his valley.

It was Carol, again. Up on the hill—right where she'd been standing, before. When she'd been searching for him with the others.

He stared at her until his vision stabilized, and could see her clearly. The light was coming from the east, this time—it fell on her face. She scanned the grass, below—calm and silent.

_You're not here._

And he turned away. Looked at the sundress girl, instead. His knife, buried in her eye. Tried to forget what he'd seen.

But he couldn't. After a few seconds, he turned back. And she was _still_ up there. Carol.

Something about it—seeing her. It made him feel pretty bad. Twisted at him, under the rib cage. Tightened his throat.

And in that moment, Daryl decided to eat the granola bar after all.

Because he knew, then, that he was going to die. And somehow, he didn't like the idea of leaving the thing untouched forever. Leaving it lying there at his side after he'd turned. As he sputtered and snarled and searched for something—anything—he could rip into with his teeth.

So he opened the package with shaking hands. It took a while for him to do it. But when he did, the sound was much louder in the air than it should have been.

There was a sort of finality to it, to him.

He remembered what that crazy guy said—the one who shot him. The one he'd killed:

_It's too late_.

Daryl got the package open, and bits of granola spilled out onto his hands. Even crushed up like that, they looked good to him. Honest food, grown out of the ground.

If he got his hands on something to eat after he changed over… it wouldn't be like that.

So he ate those crumbs. And right after, he started shaking the rest of them into his mouth, straight from the wrapper. Tried his best to chew on them, and swallow.

* * *

Carol made her way down into the grass—carefully. Held onto the saplings on the side of the hill, so she wouldn't fall.

She saw right away that the field was empty. The walkers had gone, and left the whole area slick with blood. There were guts spread out in the trampled grass. The smell of death hung in the crisp, winter air.

She immediately went for the stag. Torn into two, hulking pieces, spread out on the ground, with the entrails spread out between them.

It'd been a long time since gore had bothered her. So she knelt down in the blood. Started searching the corpse. Pushed at what was left of the matted fur.

And under it, beneath the neck… there was something lodged there. It was bright—a flash of neon green peeked through the gummy, half-dried blood.

She tugged at it—hard. Pulled the thing out from the muscle.

It came loose in her hands with a slimy, splattering sound. And Carol found herself holding a broken crossbow bolt in her hands. A black shaft, with the writing in green:

_Victory_

She held it in her fingers. Bit her lip. Listened to the wind pull in the trees.

* * *

They'd been on the road for a month, running from the farm. Somehow, nobody had died yet.

That morning, the men brought Carol, Beth, and Lori out to the fenced-in backyard of their current safehouse. They stood there, side-by-side, out by an old washing line. It had a single pillowcase hanging from it. Someone left it pinned up there, long ago.

Everyone was tense and quiet. There was a nervous energy in the air.

The men were bringing live walkers in for them to fight—for practice. They all needed to learn to protect themselves.

Daryl, Glenn, and Rick had gone to round them up. Came back with three walkers, and chained them in the garage—one for each of them to kill. And as she stood there in the yard, Carol heard a familiar noise, coming from the direction of that garage—the gurgling sounds that came out of the dead things' throats.

Glenn came around the corner, with the first of them on a catch-pole. The face was half-gone. The eyes rolled around in the sockets, surrounded by bare tendons—wet with blood. As soon as it saw the crowd in the yard, it locked eyes with Carol. Started reaching out with its hands—pulling on the restraints to get at her. She breathed in, and out. Looked right back at those bloodshot, yellow eyes.

"Ok," Glenn said, straining to hold the thing back, "Who's first?"

There was a taught silence for a moment. Beth immediately looked to Lori. But before Lori could say anything, Carol stepped forward. A few feet away from those dead hands, reaching out for her.

"Me."

She drew her knife. Held it in her hand. Squeezed at the hilt, to make sure it was solid and real beneath her fingers.

Everyone stepped back towards the fence—Beth and Lori. Rick. They gave her some room. But Daryl—he came up beside her, in the seconds before Glenn let that catch-pole go. He nudged her, and she turned her head.

He leaned in, whispered.

"Don't hold back."

Then he patted her arm, and moved away, again.

* * *

Carol held the arrow in her hands.

The wind was starting to stir—the weather was changing. Getting colder. The air had that electric feeling it sometimes gets in the winter.

And it pulled in her hair. In the grass. And Carol saw something out there. Something in the grass. She rushed over, and reached for it.

It was the crossbow.

It was Daryl's. She'd know it anywhere. She picked it up off the ground. It was the first time she'd ever held it in her hands.

The thing was a lot heavier than she'd expected.

Some strands of brown hair were caught in the grass, beside it. They caught in the wind. Blew away. She turned to watch them go—and saw something else. Off at the corner of her eye. Just a few yards from where she was standing, half-hidden in the trampled, broken grass.

She turned to it, and froze in place.

A body. A dead body. Flat on its back, and mangled completely beyond recognition. The bones were exposed. The ribcage.

The clothes that remained were coated with gore. Some bits of tattered fabric stirred in the air, a little, against the grass. Strips of something that might have been flannel, once.

Her hands went slack, and the crossbow fell to the ground. She sank slowly onto her knees.

* * *

One day, the previous December, Carol came back from her first supply run. She rushed up the walk, to the front door of that day's safehouse. Wiped her boots on the front mat, carefully, and headed to look for Daryl.

Rick, T-Dog, and Maggie were still out by the car—bringing in boxes. But Carol couldn't wait. Because she'd brought Daryl a package. Picked something out for him. And she just had to give it to him right away.

When she found him, he was sitting in a chair, fiddling with his arrows. Had one in his hand. Black, with some neon green writing on the side.

He looked up when she came in, and put the thing down.

"Merry Christmas," she said, handing him the paper bag she'd been holding. She felt the smile on her own face. She couldn't contain it.

He threw her a look. Reached into the bag, and pulled out the shrink-wrapped bundle inside.

"They're fresh socks," she told him. As if he wouldn't be able to see what they were on his own.

And he looked down at those socks, in his hand. Didn't smile.

But his foot started tapping in the air—where he had it propped up on one knee. And when he looked up at her again, his eyes lit up—the way they sometimes did.

"My favorite," he said.

* * *

Carol didn't know what to do.

She had a hand resting on the crossbow, lying out where it fell.

And sometime around then, it'd started snowing—just the slightest drifting flakes, here and there in the cold air. She watched them coming down—dry and thin. Some settled on the body. A few floated down onto her hands.

* * *

Daryl's head was swimming. His stomach lurched against what he'd swallowed. The grit from the granola bar was dry and rough in his mouth. The taste of it mingled with the smell of the sundress girl, and he felt his gorge rising.

It came up in his throat. A wet, acrid paste that tasted like bile.

He turned his head, and vomited it out on the dirt.

* * *

Carol looked up. Heard something. Something at the edge of the hill.

Her hand dropped to her knife. She scanned the ground, there, for any motion. For walkers.

But it didn't _sound_ like a walker. It sounded like… gagging.

She stood in the bloodstained grass. Headed over there. Her foot hit something then, on the ground. A rifle. A hunting rifle. Daryl didn't _have_ a rifle like that.

So someone else had been here. And there was the noise again—clear and loud, coming from behind one of the fallen trees.

She went towards it—moving fast enough she was almost jogging. And she saw a pair of shapes, behind that tree. Bodies.

One of those bodies was _moving_.

* * *

And Daryl heard the sound of footsteps in the grass, then. Something was coming for him. Something from out in the field.

Another walker. It had to be. It heard him puking his guts up.

It was just one last mistake, eating that thing. One out of a good, long list throughout his life. And it was too late, this time. He was too damn weak to defend himself.

It was over.

* * *

Carol rushed forward. One hand on her knife hilt, ready to draw.

But then she saw him. Lying there behind the tree, next to a corpse on the ground.

_Daryl_.

It was Daryl.

* * *

The thing was close, now. And Daryl tried to steel himself up. Closed his eyes. Told himself it was ok to let it end like this. He'd been shot in the leg. He was weak, and tired, and starving.

_I'm pretty much dead, anyway._

He opened his eyes, again, a moment. The light rushed in. He turned, and looked at the sundress girl. Her grey face. Thought of everything she'd said to him.

And all of his fight rushed back, again. He felt the anger at that sundress girl flooding back over him. He _couldn't_ give up.

So he grabbed the knife—yanked it right out of her eye. Held it—slick and scummy with the old gore.

And Daryl didn't care how exhausted he was. How moving even _that_ much felt like swimming against a heavy tide.

Whatever was coming—whatever it was, he'd kill it.

When it came for him, he'd stab it in the face.

* * *

When Daryl carried Carol out from the tombs, and took her back to the cellblock, they found it totally empty.

Everyone was out somewhere. It was quiet. The sunlight streamed in the grey windows, hazy with dust.

He headed for one of the cells. Paused. Looked down at her a moment—bruised and battered, with her head pressed against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed. He could feel her breath flowing over his neck—soft and warm.

And he carried her over the threshold, then, and went to lay her down on the lower bunk.

"Watch your head," he whispered, softly.

And he left her there a moment. Stepped out into their supply room—got a bottle of water, for her. And he crouched over her with it. Made to press it to her lips—but she pushed it away. Shook her head.

"Everyone," she asked—her voice thin and raspy, "... where's everyone?"

He didn't answer. And she pushed on:

"T-Dog…"

He looked down at the floor.

"Yeah. We know."

"But what about the others…?"

And Daryl—he didn't know what to say. So he just leaned over her—tried to give her that water, again:

"Here."

This time, she let him press the bottle to her lips. And he gently poured the water into her mouth.

"Ok—take it slow," he said, softly, "Don't push it."

She took the thing from him. Brushed his hand away, again. Held the bottle for herself.

"I can do it."

He looked at her. The dirt on her face. The blood on her clothes. She'd survived the tombs—all those dark hours, lost by herself in that maze.

So he nodded.

"'Course you can."

And he heard the doors opening, down the hall. That harsh, metal sound, echoing on the concrete.

It was the others—they were coming back.

She nodded to him.

"I'm ok—you go to them."

And he turned to do it. But he stopped, at the cell door. Went back. Without a word, he pulled out the knife. _Her_ knife. The one he'd found, out there in the tombs.

She looked up at him with those large, blue eyes. Took it. Held it in her hands, a moment, and then sheathed it at her side.

* * *

A shadow fell over him. And Daryl waited for it to get close. Tensed his hand around the hilt of his buck knife. Ready to strike out when it leaned in for him.

But then the voice broke the quiet:

"_Daryl_…?"

It was Carol's voice. As if _she_ was standing there. As if it were her shadow.

After everything—everything he'd done to stay alive—that sound finally broke him.

It was too much. He couldn't fight it, anymore. It was better to just pretend it was her for a while. To listen to that voice, and let it come.

It was better. This was better.

So he loosened his grip on the hilt. Let the knife go. It slid down onto the dirt at his side. The shadow fell over him.

"_Daryl…_"

Before he knew it, there were hands on his face. Warm hands.

Nothing was biting him.

So Daryl looked up. Tried hard to focus on the shape lingering just above him on the ground.

It _was_ Carol. Carol—filthy and blood spattered, with tears in her eyes. She stroked his hair back. Tilted her head.

"_Daryl_…"

Pure relief flowed over him like a wave.

Daryl didn't realize it, but he'd started laughing.


	6. Absolution

_Here we are folks—the end. I hope you've enjoyed taking this journey with me. There will be more stories as I find the time and energy to write them. The next is already in the works._

_I hope you've enjoyed this story. It's quite gratifying to me to look back at it. I hope you've enjoyed it too._

_Goodbye, for now, and much love._

* * *

_Absolution_

He sent Carol for his truck, in the end. The one he'd driven out there. It was less than two miles away, after all.

When Daryl told her where to go, he tried to slip the keyring off his belt—but he couldn't do it. His hands wouldn't work right. She had to do it for him.

Then she put a canteen to his lips—and the water was cool. It spilled into his parched mouth. The taste of it made the world come alive to him. Like fireworks. Like sunlight.

She sat with him a long time. Barely said anything. Just slowly gave him the water. Held up his head while she did it. And Daryl—he listened to her breath. It misted in the cold air, up above his face. Flowed in and out in a soft, steady rhythm. Watching it was fascinating to him.

And Carol pressed a gun into his hands, then. It looked like Maggie's, to Daryl. And he knew there had to be a story behind that. One he'd probably never hear.

And right after, she got up and walked away. He remembered watching her disappear, around the tree—her shadow trailing along behind her.

That had been a good while ago, now. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Long enough that he started wondering if she'd really been there at all. If he'd imagined the whole thing. Dreamed it.

But he had her gun. That meant it was real.

He clung to it, and waited, and watched the thin snowfall float down out of the sky.

* * *

Carol walked out from the shadowed valley, and into the farmlands that stretched away into the space beyond it. And the whole area was almost eerily empty. Silent.

After spending days in the forest, the open air felt strange to her. The sky was bright. She could see for miles all around. The snow fell on her hands. Disappeared into the tall stalks of dead grass.

Finally, she made it to the rural route Daryl had described to her. Stood there on something solid, that men had made. There were ruts in the dirt, from long forgotten tires that would never return.

She looked down the length of that long, dirt road—one way, then the other.

On the right, way off in the distance, she saw a lone walker on the road. It wasn't really moving. Just standing there, waiting for something to happen.

But that didn't concern her. Daryl said to turn left—not right. So she did.

She reached a cluster of homes, at the swell of the hill. Driveways. It was empty. A graveyard. And she knew he'd parked somewhere around there. She didn't want to leave him alone too long, so she started hitting the lock button on the keyfob—hoping the sound would tell her where to go.

And it felt strange to her, to do that. It was so _ordinary—_she'd completely forgotten what it was like to do ordinary things. It was the sort of thing you'd do in a grocery store parking lot. Finally, she heard the truck chirping at her, down the way. Headed for it. The sound of it was so profoundly normal it bordered on the ridiculous.

And she saw it. Over there—at the far side of the largest building in the group. A derelict farmhouse, with a wide porch. Half collapsed, from hot and cold and wind and rain. She walked down the gravel driveway, alongside a picket fence with chipped, white paint.

Something hit against the fence as she did it.

A walker. She knew it in an instant. There were the familiar snarls. The scraping, strangled sounds wheezing out of its throat. Behind that, she could hear the sound of rusty chains moving back and forth. A playset, with empty swings screeching in the wind.

She stood next to the truck, and the dead thing behind the fence was still there. It followed the sound of her footsteps as she walked. It was just on the other side of the big gate. Rattled at it with its hands.

And then a tiny hand reached through the gap. A child's hand—emaciated and rotting. Stained with old, black blood.

It made her freeze in place. The snarls continued. Filled the quiet air. The walker kept shaking at the fence, and the wood trembled and groaned.

She couldn't tell if it had been a boy, or a girl. Not from what she could see. Carol could barely make out the silhouette of the little body, through the slats in the wood.

Her hand went to her knife hilt, a moment. She thought about it—what she could do. All it'd take was a turn of that latch, and the gate would fall open.

That little child had probably been back there for nearly two years. Pacing around. The thought of it strained at her heart.

And until then—until _that_ moment, Carol hadn't realized how tired she was. But now she felt downright exhausted—pretty much dead on her feet.

For a moment, that phrasing almost made her laugh out loud.

And then her hand fell away from her knife. She couldn't do it. Couldn't look the thing in the face and put it down. Not now. It was too much. She just couldn't do any more.

So in the end, she left it alone. Ignored the rattling gate, and the groans. Turned her head from the sight of that small, straining hand. Got in Daryl's truck, and backed it out onto the grass.

* * *

After what felt like hours, Daryl heard something—something from out in the fields beyond the valley.

It was the truck. _His_ truck. She was driving it out over the farmlands. Over the winter dirt, stiff with cold—slow and careful, so she wouldn't get bogged down in the tall grass.

She pulled right up to the side of the fallen tree. He could smell the exhaust. The sound of the engine was loud—it echoed off the hills. And then he heard the car door opening. The seatbelt chime going off.

And then he felt her arms, lifting him up from the ground.

Daryl knew she couldn't carry him. He had to walk. So he got a hand on her shoulder. She tried to brace him. Help him upright.

It took a long time. He hung onto her with one hand. The tree trunk with another. He put his weight on his good leg, and tried hard to force himself up.

After a while, she spoke to him, softly:

"You can do it."

And as it turned out, he could. Moments later, he was upright. Weak and nauseous, with his good leg shaking under his own weight. His head started spinning.

They limped forward, together. Daryl leaned into her body. Heard her grunt with the effort of bearing him up. But he couldn't really focus on that—the ground felt like it was spinning beneath his boots. When they made it to the edge of the tree trunk, he lost his footing.

He doubled over, and she clutched at him—held onto him, and he didn't fall.

From that angle, the fallen tree filled his vision. The sundress girl lying there in the ditch. He looked at her, one last time—slumped over, with her hair all blown over her face by the wind.

Daryl turned away. Never wanted to see her again. Pushed forward with a groan—away from the dead body. Towards the chiming of the truck, with its open doors.

"C'mon," Carol whispered to him, "Just a little further."

And soon, they'd made it. She eased him into the passenger's seat. He sank into the fabric, limply. She arranged his arms on the seat before closing the door.

"There we go," she said.

And moments later, they were off. For Daryl, being in something so normal as a truck was hard to process, at first. And at the same time, everything he'd been through in that godforsaken ditch seemed far away. Like it had never been real.

* * *

And so Carol took him away from there—out of the shadow of that low valley. Neither of them would ever go back there again.

And Daryl lay there, against the seat, listening to the whisper of the tires on the ground. Leaned his head against the window, watching the farm fields pass by outside. The tall trees. The light snow. Flakes of it stuck to the window, a moment, before they melted into beads of water, trickling slowly down the glass.

Carol had the heat on high, inside that truck. Warm air spilled over him from dusty vents—he could tell they'd hardly been used for years. It threw a musty smell into the air—one that reminded him of riding shotgun in his daddy's old pickup, way back when he was a little kid.

And they reached the main roads. Drove past clusters of walkers that turned to watch them go.

Long before they reached the prison, Daryl drifted quietly asleep.

* * *

At the prison, the Woodbury children were out—laughing and playing in the yard. Excited about the snow, even if there wasn't enough to _do_ anything with.

Maggie and Glenn sat on some crates, up on the upper walkway. Keeping watch, there. Looked out over the kids, and listened to them laugh. Walkers crowded up against the far fence—straining for the children, who completely ignored them as they played tag.

"Looking at them, you'd think it was a blizzard," Glenn said, toying with the strap on the binoculars, resting on his knee.

Maggie shrugged.

"They're makin' the best of what they've got."

"Aren't we all."

And Maggie leaned back against the wire fence behind her. Looked out over the field—the flakes of snow in the bright sun.

"You know," she said, "It almost makes the place look pretty."

Glen smiled at her, a little.

"You know—back home—I used to _love_ it when it snowed," Glenn said, "Me and my sisters, we had this plastic toboggan and we'd bring it to the alley behind the house, and there was this _hill_ there, and—"

Maggie cut him off. Raised her hand. Pointed out towards the road:

"Heads up—something's coming."

She grabbed the binoculars from his lap. Focused for a taught moment, searching the horizon. Glenn clutched at the rifle in his hands.

And she turned to him.

"Oh my God—_Glenn_—that's _Daryl's truck_."

* * *

Carol cleaned herself up in her cell. Pulled off the clothes she'd been wearing—the ones the woman had given her.

It was only then it occurred to Carol that she didn't know her name.

Carol folded them up in a pile, next to her boots on the floor. They were stained and muddy, all over the knees—where she'd ground the fabric into the soiled dirt, searching the fallen stag. On the ankle of one pants leg, there was a torn place in the fabric, surrounded by dried blood.

And Carol turned from them. Wiped herself down with a bucket of warm water. Cleaned away all the dirt and grime and blood. As she did it, she realized her arms were coated with bruises—from the rocks in that creek. From fighting with the walkers. They'd bloomed there overnight—wide and dark and purple.

And Carol walked into the makeshift kitchen. Maggie was sitting at the table, there. Toying with an empty mug. Spinning it around by the handle.

"How is he?" Carol asked.

Maggie looked up.

"Dad's still with him."

Carol nodded, once. Went to put some more water on. Waited for it to warm up. Listened to the camp stove hiss in the air. Saw her own reflection in the metal pot on the burner. The scrapes on her forehead. The scabbed-over wounds.

She turned away. Rooted around for some towels. Once Hershel was done, she'd take over. Go to Daryl, and see to him.

Somewhere above, Beth was pacing around the upper walkway, holding baby Judith in her arms. Singing her a song—part of a hymn Carol had heard her sing before:

_For the joy of human love—brother, sister, parent, child  
__Friends on earth, and friends above—for all tender thoughts and mild  
__Lord of all—to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise._

Her voice echoed on the concrete. And just then—out of nowhere—Maggie put her mug down. Looked up at Carol. Leaned forward.

"God, Carol… what _happened_ to you?"

And Carol could see what Maggie was seeing—it was reflected in her expression. She could see the bruises—there's no way she could've _missed_ them. There was a sharp worry on her face. She stood up—reached for Carol's hand.

But Carol pulled her hand away.

"Don't ask me."

Maggie looked at her. And Carol took off her belt, then. Put the holstered gun down on the table. Removed the clips, and laid them there beside it.

Maggie took that holster. Cradled it in her hands. And she opened her mouth to speak, again, before Carol cut her off.

"_Don't_."

* * *

Carol made her way through the hall. The fresh towels were folded under her arm. She had a basin in one hand, and a bucket of warm water in the other.

As she made her way over, Hershel came out from the cell where they'd taken Daryl. She heard the sound of his crutches before she saw him. And then he was in front of her—looking the same as ever.

He gave Carol a steady look. Smiled at her—mostly with his eyes. Warmly, so it pulled at her heart.

And he touched her arm.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"He alright?"

"He's still unconscious, for now. And, well… even _I_ might win a race with him, today… but he's strong. Give him a while, he'll be good as new."

Hershel patted her arm, again. Made to move on—fast. Or as fast as he could move on those crutches. She imagined he still had a thousand things to do, today—regardless of what was going on with Daryl.

They all did.

Carol made to move on, herself. But before she could head to the door of the cell, a voice rang out from behind her. A familiar voice—old and soft and faltering:

"Ms. Peletier."

Turned around. Saw him standing there, wearing a familiar, old bathrobe. Oscar's discarded slippers on his bony, old feet.

"_Mr. Fischer_…"

And she was at a loss for words, just then. The old man looked… _good_. Better by far than he'd been before she left. His hands weren't shaking. He was up and about. Somehow, despite the diabetes—despite how little they could do to manage it… he was doing alright.

She'd never thought she'd see it happen.

And he looked towards the windows. The light fell over his wrinkled face from outside.

"It's a beautiful day," he said.

And she just stood there. The water sloshed in the bucket—heavy in her hand. But she didn't really notice.

Mr. Fischer came up to her. Leaned in close against her cheek, and kissed it.

* * *

Daryl wasn't really aware of what was happening to him. Everything was a grey blur. Voices, echoing in the air. Hands, touching him. Light, and shadow.

Snatches of sight—a concrete wall. A hand, holding a washcloth.

And Carol's face. Her downcast eyes, framed with the long lashes. Completely lost in thought, as she leaned over him.

* * *

While she sat at Daryl's side, Carol listened to the familiar sounds of the prison. It was never really quiet, here. And that felt comforting, to her.

She had a bowl of water next to her, cloudy with blood and dirt. And now, she was combing Daryl's hair. Gently working on the knots—the dried bits of blood clotted through the tangled strands.

After a while, Rick drifted into the cell door, holding Judith in his arms. When the baby saw Carol, she immediately lit up. Smiled. Reached out with both arms.

But Rick. It was like he couldn't _look_ at her. Not in the face.

And when he finally did, she saw that his eyes were swimming with tears.

Carol smiled at him. He didn't smile back. Walked away, into the hall, again.

* * *

Daryl opened his eyes to a pale, grey light. A winter light. It floated over the concrete walls. The blue stripes of the mattress on the bunk above his head.

He was back in the prison. Didn't remember getting there. Didn't remember _anything_, really, after Carol got him in the truck.

And he heard her voice:

"Hey," she said, quietly.

She was with him. Of course she would be.

And she had her hands in his hair. Combing at the knots. Kept doing it, as he took in his surroundings.

There was an IV hooked into his arm. He looked up at the line, and the bag hanging there, above it. And he wasn't sure what was _in_ the thing, but it was definitely helping with the pain. It gave him a warm, peaceful feeling. The ache from his wound felt dull and far away.

He was cleaned up, in fresh sheets. He saw the bucket of water where she'd been washing him. Past that, Daryl saw a rifle in the corner of the cell. He recognized it. It was the rifle from the valley—the one that man used to shoot him. The one he'd killed the guy with, after.

Carol must have found it. Brought it back. And now it was resting there, innocently enough. As if it'd never done a thing to hurt anyone.

He let out a sigh. Didn't want to think about all that, just now. Eased his head down onto the pillow, and against her waiting hand.

And then he looked up at her.

"How bad…" he asked, "How bad is it?"

She smiled.

"Hershel seems to think you'll live."

She leaned over him. He started to focus on her, more—got a better look. There were bruises blooming on her arms, and shoulders. She had a nasty scrape over one eyebrow.

He started putting it all together, then. What happened. She'd come for him. Searched the woods to find him.

She'd done it _alone_.

And looking at those bruises, he had no idea what happened to her out there.

Daryl didn't know what to say.

She saw him—saw him looking at the bruises. Pulled the sleeve down on her sweater, trying to hide them, a bit.

In the instant before she covered herself up, he could see a sort of hollowness in her face. And he knew it, then—whatever happened to her out there, it was bad.

She let out a sharp breath. Broke his train of thought.

"It's alright, Daryl," she said—as if she'd read his mind.

She leaned in, again, to work on his hair. He felt her breath on his forehead as she spoke:

"Everything's going to be fine."

And he wasn't sure what she _meant_ by it, really. If she was talking about the gunshot wound, or something else.

She laid a hand on the side of his face, again. Warm, and soft. Smiled at him.

That smile. It looked beautiful, to him. A kind of beauty that almost hurt. A kind he didn't really understand, all the way. He'd only ever felt it in the woods, before the walkers. Before the quarry.

Before the group found him.

Since then, it'd started creeping into the corners of things. This warmth. Quiet—wordless. Like the clouds moving over the sky. Like the leaves taking on color in the autumn—slow and subtle, so he hardly noticed the change.

This... thing. This nameless feeling. It'd become the background to his entire _life_, now—and he never even saw it coming.

Carol leaned away, again. It seemed like she'd finished what she was doing with his hair.

"You can just rest now, if you want to," she said, "Sleep. You need it."

She ran her hand against the side of his face, again. And he let her do it. Nodded, weakly.

"Ok."

She nodded back. Touched his shoulder. Put down the comb, and made to leave.

He tried to sit up. Reached out with his hand. Said one word:

"Stay."

So she did. Settled back into the chair, at his side.

And he felt himself drifting off, again. Didn't even try to fight it. Let himself sink into the mattress, with the warmth of the blankets all around him. Carol's hand resting on his shoulder.

Before he slipped under, he took that hand, and held it.


End file.
